The Glacier (9 page)

The same clock is on the wall behind Simone, so that they are opposite each other, and correspondingly display the opposite time.

SIMONE

(nervously)

Well I wanted to talk with you. Obviously. I, uh, I feel I've been having a bit of difficulty. I'm sure you've noticed that. And actually I've been feeling like maybe I need to take a break. And so I thought it would be helpful to talk about it with you.

MR. STEVENS

I thought we discussed this already, today.

SIMONE

We did.

MR. STEVENS

And we agreed that it was perfectly fine for you to take a short break.

SIMONE

Yes.

MR. STEVENS

And did you not—?

He finishes his sentence with his hands, waving them in a general magical manner.

SIMONE

Yes, I did.

MR. STEVENS

And…

(smoking)

…it was not satisfactory?

SIMONE

No. It was fine. It's just that… well… I am struggling, I think, um, personally, I think, to understand…

She has some difficulty continuing. Stevens exhales billowy streams of smoke out his nostrils, puts out his cigarette, and settles in.

MR. STEVENS

Well then we obviously need to examine this, don't we.

SIMONE

I guess so.

MR. STEVENS

I think we do.

SIMONE

Okay.

MR. STEVENS

I'm so glad that you came in to speak with me.

Simone nods, not so sure about it. But Stevens proceeds, interrogating her with seemingly pre-established corporate questions that she already knows the answers to.

MR. STEVENS

Who is responsible for the quality of your break time?

SIMONE

I am.

MR. STEVENS

And who is responsible if your break is not satisfying to you?

SIMONE

I am.

MR. STEVENS

And who is accountable to the person who is responsible for an unsatisfactory break time experience?

SIMONE

Me.

MR. STEVENS

Now. What did you do with your break today?

SIMONE

Well I just took a few minutes to myself just to reflect on—

MR. STEVENS

Exactly. What did you do with your break time, exactly?

SIMONE

Exactly?

MR. STEVENS

Exactly.

SIMONE

Really?

MR. STEVENS

Simone.

SIMONE

I stood in some sunlight with my eyes closed.

Stevens is blank.

He waits for more, blinking.

He does not get more.

MR. STEVENS

(puzzled)

Where?

SIMONE

At a window—

Stevens arches his fingers together in front of his face, elbows on his desk.

SIMONE

In the upper mezzanine.

MR. STEVENS

Like a kitten.

SIMONE

Excuse me?

MR. STEVENS

A baby cat. You stood in a ray of sunshine in the upper mezzanine with your eyes closed.

SIMONE

Yes.

MR. STEVENS

(relieved)

Why that sounds delightful!

SIMONE

Well it did feel like something that I really needed.

MR. STEVENS

Of course it did.

SIMONE

But it's so difficult to describe.

MR. STEVENS

No it's not! It's easy! See, we just did it!

SIMONE

No, I mean—the thing.

MR. STEVENS

What thing.

SIMONE

The thing that I need.

Silence, as if some evil has entered. The corner of the room, a seam of mortar and baby blue cinder blocks. The room is sweating.

He stares at her. She stares at her lap.

MR. STEVENS

And what thing is that?

SIMONE

Well, that's the thing, I mean, that's the problem, because it's not there.

MR. STEVENS

I'm sorry?

SIMONE

It's
like
it's there, like it's
something
, but it's not.

MR. STEVENS

How would you describe it, then? If you were able.

SIMONE

I would describe it… as… being either invisible or not there at all. I would describe it as being… gone.

MR. STEVENS

Gone.

SIMONE

Yes.

MR. STEVENS

Invisible.

SIMONE

Yes.

MR. STEVENS

Well then I'm not really sure if—

SIMONE

But it does have a smell.

MR. STEVENS

Oh?

SIMONE

Yes. Definitely.

MR. STEVENS

That's interesting.

SIMONE

I thought so too.

MR. STEVENS

And how would you describe the… odor?

SIMONE

Acrid.

MR. STEVENS

Acrid.

SIMONE

Yes, like something burning.

MR. STEVENS

I know what acrid means.

SIMONE

Yes, of course, well, that's what it smells like.

Like something burning.

MR. STEVENS

Well, Simone, that is, interesting. Burning. Is it painful?

SIMONE

The smell? No.

MR. STEVENS

Ah, no, of course not. A smell.

SIMONE

Yeah, I would have to say no, not really, except that then yes, sometimes it can seem very painful and then it is painful, yes.

MR. STEVENS

Simone—

SIMONE

(suddenly urgent)

What is it?

MR. STEVENS

What is what?

SIMONE

What do you think it is?

MR. STEVENS

The smell?

SIMONE

Yes, well, the thing.

MR. STEVENS

I
would rather say that you're choosing to make this quite difficult for yourself, aren't you?

SIMONE

How do you mean?

MR. STEVENS

I would rather inquire as to what you intend to do about it as opposed to attempting to discern the nature of a thing which may or may not be invisible and therefore may or may not actually exist and/or smell, acrid, or not.

SIMONE

I would have to find it then, in order to know, how to answer that question, I mean.

MR. STEVENS

Simone—

SIMONE

(crying out)

It won't go away!

MR. STEVENS

(and suddenly roaring)

Simone!

Then low…

MR. STEVENS

(quietly)

You know very well that none of this is possible.

SIMONE

(also quietly)

But why? I could just quit, and leave.

He smokes, and puts out his cigarette, all in one motion.

MR. STEVENS

Now you see. This is exactly what concerns me very deeply, Simone. We know very well that to change our physical circumstances is one thing but if there's a deeper issue then we need to be honest about that, don't we, otherwise we're just putting a little Band-Aid on a much more serious problem.

SIMONE

Yes. I know. And that's exactly what I would like to address.

MR. STEVENS

Good. I think that's smart.

SIMONE

But it's scary.

MR. STEVENS

I know it is. That's why we have the structure to rely on. We're all safe here.

She nods.

MR. STEVENS

So why don't you try, one more time, and tell me what it is.

He waits, letting her work it out.

They both wait for it.

SIMONE

(timidly)

I don't know.

And Stevens erupts like a bouquet of spring flowers.

MR. STEVENS

O my dear Simone, of course you don't! Sweetheart, that's nothing to be afraid of. There's nothing more natural in the world!

She laughs, relieved.

MR. STEVENS

But it doesn't matter.

SIMONE

What?

MR. STEVENS

It just doesn't matter. You see— Everything you're feeling is an illusion. It's just patterns, patterns and chemicals, coming and going. It feels like feelings, but it's not. If we stay focused on the tasks at hand it all works itself out. We're so much better off when we realize that there just isn't anywhere else to go. This is it! Why cause ourselves more headache and heartache. And, from experience I can tell you, once you leave the ship you are really out there in deep space, all alone.

He lets that sink in.

MR. STEVENS

Now. Go take a few more minutes to yourself, get yourself freshened up, and then let's channel all that energy into the Event where it really does matter to everyone.

She nods.

MR. STEVENS

Okay.

She exits the office.

Mr. Stevens lights up a fresh cigarette and spreads his arms the length of his desk, considering the maintenance of things.

He exhales.

Robert's front lawn has been stripped to the bone. One solitary square of sod remains.

Robert emerges from the house and traverses the yard. He throws the remaining section of turf over his shoulder and hauls it inside.

He unloads the last of the sod onto an enormous pile of dirt and grass heaped in the middle of the living room floor. A white foot sticks out from the base of the mound. Robert has buried the mud man.

He hauls a garden hose through the front door into his living room and sprays the mound of sod, watering it liberally. Then he hoses down the rest of the inside of his living room.

He rips the curtains from the living room windows. He grabs a lamp off the coffee table, and swings it like an axe, smashing it powerfully against the table. He roars victoriously, then he picks up the table and hurls it through the front window of the house. Marveling at his new-found will, Robert rushes back outside. He drags the coffee table out of the front shrubbery and heaves it back at the side of the house.

He marches around the dirt yard like a drum major leading his own parade.

Home again, home again, jiggety jig!

Home again, home again, jiggety jig!

He does a funny little shimmy dance, shaking out all the bugs, and then marches over to the corner of his house. He grabs hold of the corner molding of vinyl siding and rips the corner off his house.

Then Robert proceeds to rip an entire strip of vinyl siding from the front of his house and haul it inside.

***

Samson rolls along a wide, new four-lane of suburban corporate strip. High halogen lights illuminate the night with a diffuse orange haze and the ice cream truck passes through it like a creamsicle.

The strip runs out and devolves into a service road. Sam rolls his magic wagon over the transition and up the long dirt drive toward an old farmhouse glowing in the night on a rise.

Floodlights illuminate razed earth surrounding the lot. The adjacent fields have been cleared for development. Off-duty bulldozers and backhoes sit facing the house.

And every inch of the farmhouse is covered in white Christmas tree lights, sparkling in the night. Sam parks his truck and hops out.

Bluegrass music is spilling from the house. Samson climbs the front porch steps and opens the front door. Music pours over the threshold.

Samson has walked into the middle of a blistering bluegrass jamboree. Couches and chairs are filled with musicians singing and clapping. Dust rises from the hardwood floor as they stomp out the rhythm.

Guitars, banjos, mandolins, fiddles, washboards, jaw harps, mouth harps, a stand-up bass, and an old clunky piano slide and pick away at the end-of-days Appalachian melody. The furious devil's music fills the living room, melding with the extensive folk art collection hanging from the walls.

Ezekiel Crawfish is a vintage picker with a dirt-farmer's lean and handsome countenance. He sees Sam, sets his guitar aside, and rises to greet his friend. They shake hands warmly, shouting at each other over the loud music.

ZEKE

Howdy, Sam.

SAMSON

Zeke!

ZEKE

How are ya?

SAMSON

Just fine. Just fine. You?

ZEKE

Oh, hanging in here. Smoke?

SAMSON

Nah. Thanks. Don't use 'em. When the wrecking balls coming in?

Zeke lights a cigarette.

ZEKE

Anytime now.

SAMSON

How long you all gonna play?

ZEKE

'Til the fat lady sings!

SAMSON

Well. This should keep you going.

Samson pulls the brown paper bag out of his pocket and hands it to him.

ZEKE

Oh, we thank you kindly, Sam. Sure does take the edge off.

SAMSON

Whatever I can do.

ZEKE

Appreciate it.

There's an awkward pause. The music carries on around them.

SAMSON

Where's Charlie, Zeke?

ZEKE

Ah hell, Sam.

SAMSON

I know. I know how hard this is. But I believe he's ready.

ZEKE

Oh he's ready. It's the rest of us.

SAMSON

Let's round it up. He'll have my hide if I keep him waiting.

The boys are playing hard and fast on that living room jamboree.

Out behind the house sits an old barn, big and white like a snowy owl in the night.

The barn doors are slid open and golden straw-colored light spills over Sam, Zeke, the crowd of musicians, and the large family household as they enter the barn and gather with their instruments.

At the center of the barn, a white-haired old man sits in a wheelchair in a pool of light. Charlie's eyes are wide and wet. His face is open, gentle, and afraid.

Sam approaches him and speaks to him privately in a low voice. Charlie nods several times, and Sam backs away.

Charlie pulls a folded piece of paper out of his shirt pocket. He unfolds the paper and raises an artificial larynx device to his throat. He reads his poem in a robotic, electronic voice.

CHARLIE

(robotic voice)

Men. The land is gone. The land that you dreamed on. The land that was dreaming you. And presently I will take leave too. But my love will not perish. Dear family, sweet music. I love you. Oh how I love you.