Bible Stories for Adults (17 page)

Job flicks off the Zenith. Franny flicks off the Sony.

FRANNY
. Damn. Slept through most of it. I'd better get a clock radio.

JOB
. Who the hell are you?

FRANNY
. I live here. Franny Fenstermacher.
(Assertive)
This dung is all mine.

JOB
. Squatter's rights?

FRANNY
. Exactly.
(Friendly but cautious)
I'd be happy to help you find your
own
heap, but this one's taken.

JOB
.
(Pointing to cables)
Are you responsible for all these wires and things?

FRANNY
.
(Proud)
Uh-huh. Ever visit Fenstermacher's House and Garden Supplies on Central Avenue? I own that too.
(Sweeps hand across dung heap)
I expect I'll install some plumbing next. You know—get the toilet working, maybe put in a Jacuzzi.
(Struggles to her feet, coughing)
Assuming I don't go blind first. The diabetes.

JOB
. Oh, dear.

FRANNY
. Not to mention the emphysema, the osteoporosis, the arthritis . . .

JOB
. How horrible.

FRANNY
. It's terrible, but it's not horrible. Horrible's what happened to my husband.

JOB
.
(Gulps)
Oh?

FRANNY
. Lost everything when our local S & L went under. The day Bill got the news, you know what he did? Walked straight into a McCormick reaper.

JOB
. Killed?

FRANNY
. Shredded.

JOB
. I'm sorry.

FRANNY
. Like a CIA document. I can talk about it now, but I nearly went mad at the time.

JOB
. Indeed.

FRANNY
. Then there's my son. You know what a Bradley-Chambers child is?

JOB
.
(Aside)
I don't want to hear about this.

FRANNY
. A Bradley-Chambers child suffers from Bradley-Chambers syndrome. Cleft palate, too many fingers, kidneys pitted with lesions, defective heart. He lives in constant pain. My Bradley-Chambers child is named Andy.

JOB
. Mercy.

FRANNY
.
(Points to the Zenith)
One of these days, Job Barnes is going to get it all back—his possessions, family, health.

JOB
.
(Retrieving newspaper)
Not as long as the
ratings
hold up.

FRANNY
. Are you being cynical? I don't like cynics.
(Lifts eyes to heaven)
Listen, Lord, I want you to know I'm not bitter. You have your reasons.
(Turns to Job, points skyward)
He has his reasons.

JOB
.
(Reads)
“School bus plunges off ravine.”
(Turns page)
“Bridge of San Luis Rey collapses.”
(Stares at Franny)
Wish I had your faith.

FRANNY
.
(Pulls Job's book from apron pocket)
This sustains me.
The Job Barnes Story: How I Suffered, Suppurated, and Survived.
It has a happy ending.

JOB
.
(Reads)
“Cholera death toll reaches 15,000 in Iraq.”
(Turns page)
“Floods destroy Peruvian village.”

FRANNY
. Sooner or later, God'll fix everything. He'll heal my child, take away my infirmities, find me a new husband . . .

JOB
. And by coming here, you thought you could speed up the process?

FRANNY
.
(Defensive)
Is that so crazy? Isn't it logical to suppose he's more likely to notice me if I'm camped out on Job's own dung heap?
(Taps on book)
This all really happened, you know.
The Job Barnes Story
is one hundred percent true.

JOB
.
(Nodding)
I wrote it.

FRANNY
.
(Shocked)
What?

As Franny consults the author photo on the back of the dust jacket, her jaw drops in astonishment.

FRANNY
. Good gracious, that's you! You're Job Barnes!
(Coughs)
I feel so ashamed. Here I am, droning on about my problems to the man who practically
invented
suffering.
(Indicating Job's book)
Says here you lost your herdsmen, your camel drivers, sheep—

JOB
. My children.

FRANNY
. Oxen, donkeys—and then you got all those awful boils.

JOB
.
(Reminiscing)
Scraping myself with a potsherd. Scratching myself to the bone.

FRANNY
. The pus oozing out of you like sweat.

JOB
. “Curse God and die,” Ruth said.

FRANNY
. But then you learned to accept.
(Pulls ballpoint pen from apron)
You repented in dust and ashes.
(Thrusts book and pen toward Job)
Hey, do me a favor, Mr. Barnes?

Job takes book and pen from Franny, autographs the title page.

JOB
. There.
(Returns book)
A collector's item.

FRANNY
. I know what
I'm
doing here, but I don't know what
you're
doing here.

JOB
.
(Matter-of-factly)
I want a rematch. I want the debate to continue.

FRANNY
. Debate?

JOB
. “Resolved: Job Barnes should never have withdrawn his case.”
(To heaven)
Got that, sir? I'm back on the old dung heap, and I'm pissed as ever.
(Opens vest
-
pocket Bible, reads)
“God destroyeth the perfect and the wicked. If the scourge slay suddenly, he will laugh at the trial of the innocent.” Now there's a Job I can respect, keeping his Creator on the hook.
(Flips ahead)
“God hath broken me asunder. He hath taken me by my neck, and shaken me to pieces. He poureth out my gall upon the ground.” That's the real me, bloodied but unbowed.

FRANNY
.
(Unimpressed)
Okay, but in the end he answered your accusations. He dazzled you with the majesty of the universe.
(Coughs)
He awed you, he amazed you . . .

JOB
. He pulled rank on me.
(Reads in Godlike tone)
“Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?”
(Paraphrasing)
“I'm God, and you're not”—is that an argument, Franny?
(Snaps Bible closed)

FRANNY
. What're you so upset about? He rewarded you handsomely. New family, new house, new herds . . .

JOB
. Stock options, trust funds, book royalties, TV residuals. Bribery, all of it. Hush money.

FRANNY
.
(Struck by the idea)
Hush money . . .

JOB
. Hush camels, hush donkeys: anything to keep me from telling the world how I really felt. He
used
me, Franny. He put me through hell on a dare, then passed it off as an inquiry into the problem of evil. He owes me an apology.

FRANNY
. Apology? You're gonna ask God for an
apology?

JOB
. Yup.

FRANNY
. Tell you one thing—I'm not planning to be around for that.

JOB
.
(To heaven)
Look, sir, we needn't begin with the meat of things. A game of chess will do—I'll give you a bishop advantage and the first move.
(To Franny)
He's not talking.
(To heaven)
Monopoly, sir? Start you out with a hotel on Park Place. Dominoes? Backgammon?
(Reads from Bible)
“Who laid the cornerstone thereof?”
(Sarcastic)
Cornerstone. Earth's cornerstone. Okay, fine, but now let's hear from
today's
God.
(Reads)
“Hast thou given the horse strength? Has thou clothed his neck with thunder?”
(To heaven)
These old metaphors won't do, sir. Not in the post-Darwinian era.

FRANNY
. Sometimes, standing in the midday sun with the heat leaping up from these ashes and the flies buzzing in my ears, I can feel it, really feel it. This is hallowed ground, Mr. Barnes.

JOB
.
(Selecting a dung nugget)
Shall we take off our shoes?

FRANNY
. He's near. He's very near.

JOB
. Have you ever considered the taxonomy of turds?

FRANNY
. What?
(Offended)
Certainly not.

JOB
. At the very bottom: dogshit. The lowest of the low—ragpickers, bag ladies, and people who hang out on dung heaps. When you treat somebody like dogshit, your contempt knows no bounds.
(Tosses the nugget, selects another)
Next we have chickenshit. Chickenshit allows for a certain humanity. A chickenshit may be a disgusting coward, but at least he's not dogshit.
(Tosses the nugget, selects another)
Bullshit comes after that—blatant and aggressive untruths. But at a certain level, of course, we admire our liars, don't we? Bullshitters get elected, chickenshits never.
(Tosses the nugget, selects another)
At the top of the hierarchy, at the summit of the heap: horseshit. Horseshit is false too, but it's not
manifestly
false. Horseshit is subtle. It's nuanced. It plays to win. Horseshit fools some of the people some of the time. Divine justice, for example, is horseshit, not bullshit. Indeed, we hold horseshit in such esteem that we decline to bestow the epithet on one another. A person can be a bullshitter, but only a horse can be a horseshitter.

FRANNY
. What a thoroughly depressing person you are. I wish I'd never met you.

A wheelchair rolls into the scene, bearing a thin, pale, thirteen-year-old boy named Tucker, a contemporary equivalent of Tiny Tim. Intravenous feeding tubes lead from his arms to bottles of nutrients set on aluminum poles
.
Wincing and groaning, he moves the wheels with his gloved hands, gradually maneuvering himself to the base of the dung heap.

FRANNY
. Greetings, young man.

Tucker grunts, gasps, and eventually catches his breath.

FRANNY
. You okay?

TUCKER
.
(Brightly)
Hi, I'm Tucker, and I've got AIDS!

JOB
.
(Looking around)
Where are we—Lourdes?

FRANNY
.
(To Tucker)
Poor child. Poor, poor child.
(Admonishing Job)
Lourdes was once a dung heap too.

TUCKER
. A mislabeled batch of blood, and before I knew it—

FRANNY
. You mean you're—

TUCKER
. A hemophiliac, ma'am. Dad's about ready to kill himself. Mom's been doin' the talk shows.
(Points to the Zenith)
Hey, does that work? I think she's on at five.

FRANNY
. We get a picture on the Zenith, sound on the Sony.

TUCKER
. Excellent. Ever watch
One Man's Misery?

FRANNY
. Faithfully.

JOB
. First hemophilia, then AIDS.
(To heaven)
My hat goes off to you. You've outdone yourself.

TUCKER
. Did I come to the right dung heap? This the place where God appears?

JOB
. Every twenty-five hundred years or so. Hope you brought your toothbrush.

FRANNY
. You came to exactly the right dung heap.

TUCKER
. Are
you
sick, ma'am?

FRANNY
. Diabetes.

TUCKER
. My aunt had that. Are your legs gonna rot off?

FRANNY
. I hope not.

JOB
.
(Pointing skyward)
Don't give him any ideas.

TUCKER
.
(Indicating Job)
Is he sick too?

FRANNY
. He's got hubris.

JOB
. Tic-tac-toe, God? Croquet? Clue?

FRANNY
. Don't listen to anything he says.

TUCKER
. Know what I really hate?

FRANNY
. What?

TUCKER
. Eggplant. Eggplant and being a virgin. I don't even know what it
looks
like.

FRANNY
. Eggplant?

TUCKER
. Screwing.

FRANNY
.
(Bewildered)
Oh, dear.
(Ponders)
It looks like dancing.

TUCKER
. Bullshit.

JOB
. Exactly.

TUCKER
. Hey, d'ya suppose there're any trading cards around here?

FRANNY
.
(Amiably)
I wouldn't be surprised.
(Picks through trash)
Let's go hunting.

Tucker slips a stack of trading cards from his shirt pocket, fanning them out like a bridge hand.

TUCKER
. I'm collectin' the series called
Operation Desert Storm. (Consults checklist card)
I need “Number Forty-two: Patriot Missile Control Center” and “Number Seventeen: General Colin Powell.”

Franny retrieves a cardboard rectangle from the heap.

FRANNY
.
(Reads)
“What Pierre Saw Through the Keyhole: Number Thirty-four in a Series of Authentic French Postcards.”

TUCKER
. Oooo—gimme.

Franny hands Tucker the postcard, then resumes her search.

TUCKER
. Golly.

FRANNY
.
(Finding Desert Storm card)
Hey, here's one.
(Brings card to Tucker)
Have you got “Number Four: General Norman Schwarzkopf”?