[Shortly after the election, I started writing a three act play, a mashup loosely inspired by Ubu Roi and King Lear. Now, a month into the new regime, I think I saw what had happened and what was coming fairly clearly. So, rather than obsess over the outrage du jour, I am posting the play here, a scene at a time.]
A vacant lot, with its thread-bare carpet of weeds, broken pavement, and wind-strewn refuse. Two large garbage cans, at first seeming empty, are the lot's only occupants. Then, Pa Joad's head and shoulders rise out of one, and Ma Joad's head and shoulders rise out of the other.
Pa Joad:
Good morning, Ma.
Ma Joad:
Good morning, Pa.
Pa Joad:
How'd you sleep?
Ma Joad:
Good. You?
Pa Joad:
I like these new cans Tom got for us. Stuff a few of them newspapers in here, they're comfy enough.
Ma Joad:
Tom ain't been back from hunting, is he?
Pa Joad (looking around):
I ain't seen him. I'm gonna rest a while and think about food.
Pa Joad sinks back into his garbage can. George Antrobus enters. He's a middle-aged black man in a tattered postal service uniform, barefoot, with a very worn mail carrier's bag slung over one shoulder.
George:
Good morning, folks. Is this the Joad residence?
Ma Joad:
I guess so. For now.
George:
I've got a letter for you.
Ma Joad:
No! Who writes letters any more? To us?
George:
If you're Ma Joad, to you. (Pulls an envelope out of the mailbag, scrutinizes it.) "From your son Tom," it says. (Hands it over to Ma. While she tears open the envelope, extracts its contents, drops the envelope on the ground, and reads, he continues.) But you're right, we don't get much to carry these days, not with so many people moving around, people from the sun belt escaping too much sun, people from Florida and the coasts escaping too much ocean, people from all over escaping floods and fires and tornadoes and droughts, no fixed address. All the commercial stuff's been farmed out to Trumpaboo Express. Not that there's so much of it, what with the economy and everything.
Ma Joad:
Folks like us, tractored out by the Lotsabucksaboos. (Reads laboriously, finger moving slowly across the page, then looks up.) How'd you know where to find us?
George:
He told me when he gave it to me. I met him at the dump last night just before he got on the truck. To tell you the truth, it's the only piece of mail I've carried in a week.
Ma Joad:
Pa! Pa! This nice man -
George:
George Antrobus, ma'am.
Ma Joad:
George Antrobus has brought us a letter! From Tom!
Pa Joad rises out of the depths of his garbage can.
Pa Joad:
What?! What?! Glory be!
Ma Joad:
Tom says he was out at the dump bagging rats and this truck drove up and the man in the truck says he's hiring folks to go logging in the northeast and anybody wants a job that pays real money and puts a roof over your head should climb on board right now so off he went but he gives us the address and tells us join him there!
Pa Joad:
Glory be!
Ma Joad:
Mr. Antrobus -
George:
George.
Ma Joad:
George, you seem like good folks. I'm sure you don't get much for hauling that sack around.
George:
They pay us piece rates, since they outlawed unions.
Ma Joad:
And I'll bet you won't get nothing for this delivery here, being as it's not official.
George silently indicates that's true.
Ma Joad:
Do you have family?
George:
My lovely, perfect wife Maggie and our daughter, Gladys.
Ma Joad:
Why don't you and yours join us? We can all go to (looks at the letter, spells it out) Grover's Corners Vermont together.
George:
I've been thinking about it ever since last night, and - gladly! I'll go get Maggie and Gladys, and we'll meet you back here. While you're waiting, for your kindness, here's a little something I've been saving for a special occasion. A little something for the road.
George doffs the mail sack, and, before dropping it on the ground, reaches in and pulls out a medium sized turnip. He hands the turnip to Ma Joad, its greens drooping. She receives it in open-mouthed amazement. George exits.
Pa Joad:
Glory be!
