Bradbury, Ray - SSC 17
Page 13
The old man has been pushed and urged toward the door, but cannot resist looking back, out and around.
THE OLD MAN
Oh, God. Did they hear? Do they know?
The crowd becomes dreadfully still, cuts off. Silence. A beat. The old man stares as if to fathom them. He looks at the red ticket. Then, seizing the stranger’s hand and arm, he shakes, he wrings it in terrible friendship, and …
Bolts! Runs off as if wildly pursued. Swift running darkness!
A locomotive whistle, the sound of a train rushing on tracks.
Somehow, we find a train, or the echo of a train, the phantom semblance of a train, is under and around the old man. He sways. The night sweeps by, running in a blizzard of snowflakes and sound.
Standing, swaying amidst all this, among crumpled masses of clothing which must be people crammed into a narrow room, and on benches, the old man speaks to the night and the running train, peering first, in awe, at the ticket in his hand, reading the words to believe them, then looking around at his swift, strange environment…
THE OLD MAN
(to himself)... Chicago Abyss …night… time … snow … a blizzard of cold snow falling on the earth … ancient train … old cars … crammed with unwashed people … hundreds, thousands … sleeping in the aisles, jammed in the rest rooms, fighting to sleep, hoping not to dream …
He looks around, as if suddenly reminded of something, as he finds a place for himself jammed among the ragbags which must be sleeping humans.
THE OLD MAN
(to himself as he sits)Remember, quiet, shut up, no, don’t speak, nothing, stay still, think, careful… cease…
The train roars its whistle, flashes over a viaduct with new disturbs of thunder, fades, the old man sways.
THE OLD MAN
(to himself)Wait… wait…
For now a light has come slowly on to show us a boy of some 10 or 11 years, who is sitting near the old man, watching him with a steady gaze. He has been watching during all the above, but only now does his gaze, like a beacon, pick out the old man and cause him to cease communing with himself. Now the light is very bright upon the boy; he becomes the most important thing on the train. The rest of the lights, showing us the crowded humanity on the floors and benches, begin to fade now. The sound of the tram is a muted humming dream.
Fascinated, the old man looks at the boy who looks back, unblinking, his eyes wide, his face pale, his ticket clenched in his hand, a look of great lost loneliness and traveling by himself in his gaze.
The old man turns away, shuts his eyes. The boy looks at him. The old man turns back, looks at the boy, and again turns away.
The boy watches him.
The old man opens his eyes, argues with himself, moving his lips … but we cannot hear what he says … we only see him shrug, almost hit at his own arms, and firmly resolve not to look at the boy. Again he glances over at the boy but more swiftly now turns away, for the boy has not blinked and still fixes him with a clear pale look.
At last, looking around, to see if all are asleep, and no one is listening, the old man looks at the boy again, swallows, wets his lips, revs up his courage, and speaks.
THE OLD MAN
(leaning forward)Shh, boy. Your name?
The train roars up a bit, fades. The boy waits and speaks.
THE BOY
Joseph.
The tram sways and creaks, snow light falls down in a silent buzzard of Time around them.
THE OLD MAN
Joseph … ?(he nods)Ah…
He looks around one last time and leans further forward toward that pale face, those great round bright waiting eyes.
THE OLD MAN
Well, Joseph…
The old man lifts his fingers softly on the air.
THE OLD MAN
… once upon a time…
All freezes in tableau. The lights dim.
In the dark, the train runs away and away, fading, with a last cry of its lost whistle.
By which time the curtain has come down and we are at
THE END