Waiting for Vaccine

(with apologies to Samuel Beckett)

A country road. A tree.

Evening.

Estragon, sitting on a low stump, is trying to take off his boot. He pulls at it with both hands, panting. He gives up, exhausted, rests, tries again. As before.

Enter Vladimir.

Estragon: (giving up again) Nothing to be done.

Vladimir: I’m beginning to come around to that opinion.

Estragon: I think I have COVID toe.

Vladimir: You’re upsetting yourself.

Estragon: My toes are purple, with tender or itchy bumps. Are yours?

Vladimir: No.

Estragon: Then my feet are sick. (returns to struggling with his shoe)

Vladimir: There's man all over for you, blaming his feet for the faults of his boots.

Estragon: I thought I had a dry cough yesterday.

Vladimir: What of it?

Estragon: And shortness of breath.

Vladimir: Still breathing, then? Mind you don’t waste your time.

Estragon: And fever. I had fever!

Vladimir: It may have just been passion. They are hard to untwine.

Estragon: And I can’t taste a thing!

Vladimir: Then the taste of failure won’t linger in your mouth.

Estragon: What if I am dying?

Vladimir: (scoffs) You are not dying. You are simply getting acquainted with the corpse that dwells within you.

Estragon: I need a test.

Vladimir: We are all tested, every day. And most fail.

Estragon: I need help. Let’s go.

Vladimir: We can’t go. We have to wait.

Estragon: To wait? For whom?

Vladimir: We are waiting for vaccine.

Besides, you must be well, even if you feel badly.

Estragon: Do you think so?

Vladimir: Say you are well, even if it isn’t true.

Estragon: I am well.

Vladimir: So am I.

Estragon: So am I.

Vladimir: We are well.

Estragon: We are well. Ah, that’s better! (Silence.) What do we do now, now that we are well?

Vladimir: We wait for vaccine.

Estragon: It should be here by now. They said it would come today.

Vladimir: It might.

Estragon: And if it doesn’t come?

Vladimir: We’ll come back tomorrow.

Estragon: And then the day after tomorrow?

Vladimir: Certainly. Where is your mask?

Estragon: (looks under his hat, sighs resignedly) I don’t know.

Vladimir: Have you washed your hands?

Estragon: These? (looks at his hands) I can’t tell.

Vladimir: Do you avoid crowds?

Estragon: (looks around) They have avoided me.

Vladimir: Have you coughed into your sleeve?

Estragon: (looks down his sleeve) I don’t see anything. Or is that the future? I will die, like the others.

Vladimir: What others?

Estragon: All the others. The caregivers. The meatpackers. The downtrodden and dispossessed. The children of the powerful. The powerful themselves. They are dying, all of them.

Vladimir: (sententious) To every man his little cross. (he sighs) Till he dies.

Estragon: You see! (he grabs his throat) So I do have it! I knew it! (he falls to the ground and begins taking off his boot again) I must see my toe!

Vladimir: Your toe is fine.

Estragon: But something is wrong! I know it!

Valdimir: How do you know that?

Estragon: I have deduced it.

Vladimir: How did you do that?

Estragon: (proudly) Vaccine is 95 percent effective, is it not?

Vladimir: So it is said.

Estragon: Then five percent of me will be beset! My toe, my tongue…somewhere, the five percent will undo me. (he shakes his head sadly) To live is to learn how one will die.

Vladimir: You are not dying. And when the vaccine comes, you will not die yet again.

Estragon: Then, in the meantime, what shall we do?

Vladimir: We will wait. We will wait for vaccine.

Estragon: They said it would be here by Election Day.

Vladimir: Are you saying Election Day was a fraud?.

Estragon: They said it would be here by Thanksgiving.

Vladimir: There were no thanks to give.

Estragon: They said it would be here by Christmas.

Vladimir: Our Lord and Savior. Let us pray.

Estragon: (puts his hands together, then looks up) What shall we pray for?

Vladimir: It makes no difference. Prayers are unanswered.

Estragon: I will pray nevertheless. (He closes his eyes tightly, then suddenly groans and thrusts his arms forward.) God help me!

Vladimir: What is it?

Estragon. I can’t see! I’m blind! It’s the COVID!

Vladimir: (chastisingly) No, you’re not. Open your eyes.

Estragon: I’m not? (He blinks his eyes and looks about.) I’m not blind! I’ve been spared!

Vladimir: That passed the time.

Estragon: It would have passed in any case.

Vladimir: Yes, but not so rapidly.

The Boy: (offstage) Messieurs!

(They both look towards the voice.)

Vladimir: Approach, my child. What is it?

The Boy: (entering) Dear sirs, the vaccine. They have sent me to tell you about it.

Vladimir: Obviously.

Estragon: (violently) What kept you these months?

Vladimir: You have a message about the vaccine?

Estragon: (Mistrustfully) Have you kept it cold?

Vladimir: (to Estragon) Leave him alone.

Estragon: (Advancing to The Boy) Is it cold? It must be as cold. As cold as the deepest void of distant universes.

The Boy: I don’t know of such things.

Estragon: As cold as the Arctic once was.

The Boy: I cannot say.

Estragon: As cold as the heart of God.

Valdimir: Mind you do not exaggerate.

The Boy: I don’t know that.

Estragon: Don’t know! Well, I assure you, lad, look round you. God’s heart is cold.

The Boy: I meant vaccine.

Vladimir: What does he know? He’s only a boy. What do you know, Boy?

The Boy: The vaccine will be coming soon.

Estragon: For whom? For me?

Vladimir: (To Estragon) Let him alone.

Estragon: It’s all a pack of lies. (shaking The Boy by the arm.) Tell us the truth!

Vladimir: Will you let him alone! What’s the matter with you?

Estragon: I’m not well. I think I am ill.

Vladimir: Since when?

Estragon: Why does it matter? I am ill and need vaccine.

Vladimir: If you are ill, you do not need the vaccine.

Estragon: I don’t?

Vladimir: No. it would be too late. The vaccine poses as the virus. If you have the virus, there is no need for the pose.

Estragon: So…if I am sick, then I am cured!

Vladimir: In a manner of speaking. (to The Boy) Well?

The Boy: Sir?

Vladimir: (angrily) The vaccine, boy! When will it come?

The Boy: This month, and if not, the next. And if not, the month to follow. That will depend.

Vladimir: Depend?

The Boy: Yes, Sir. Are you a responder? Are you old? Do you have co-morbidity?

Estragon: I have comorbidity with everyone. We shall all die together!

Vladimir: Are you telling us the truth, boy?

The Boy: As best I know it, Sir.

Estragon: It is the truth, as far as he knows.

Vladimir: What truth isn’t?

The Boy: I will take my leave, then. Wait here and vaccine will arrive.

(The Boy exits)

(Silence.)

Estragon: What do we do now?

Vladimir: We wait.

Estragon: We wait.

(Silence.)

Vladimir: We could wear our masks.

Estragon: We could stay an appropriate distance from each other.

Vladimir: We could wash our hands.

Estragon: We could cough into our sleeves.

Vladimir: We could stay away from crowds.

Estragon: We could quarantine!

Vladimir: Yes! We can quarantine together!

Estragon: Yes! Let us do that!

Vladimir: Yes! We will do all of that!

Estragon: All of it, yes! And while we do it, we will wait!

Vladimir: Wait for the vaccine, yes!

(They stand there, motionlessly and silently.)

Estragon: That’s enough. I’m tired of all of that. It is too much to do.

Vladimir: I am as well. But it passed the time.

Estragon: Wouldn’t it have passed in any case?

Vladimir: We will come back tomorrow.

Estragon: And do what?

Valdimir: Who knows? Perhaps we’ll hang ourselves tomorrow. (pause) Unless vaccine comes.

Estragon: And if it comes?

Vladimir: We’ll be saved.

Estragon: Well then, shall we go?

Vladimir: Yes. Let us go, so we may come back tomorrow.

Estragon: And what will we do tomorrow?

Vladimir: We will wait. For the vaccine.

Estragon: Of course.

Vladimir: Yes. Let’s. Shall we go?

Estragon: Yes, let’s go.

(They do not move.)

Curtain.

Pictured are some of the remarkable actors who have taken on the challenge of Waiting for Godot: Robin Williams and Steve Martin, Burt Lahr and E. G. Marshall (audio on YouTube), Nathan Lane and Bill irwin, Burgess Meredith and Zero Mostel (my favorite, and available in its entirety on YouTube!), Kyle Manzay and Wendell Pierce (in a production staged in New Orleans after Katrina), and Patrick Sewart and Ian McKellen, followed by the author, Samuel Beckett.

The Trolley Problem

Norman Pottshouser stood at the front of a line so long that when he turned, the end could not be seen. He barely remembered waiting on the line, and he certainly didn’t remember getting on it in the first place. In fact, Norman Pottshouser was only now coming to understand Norman Pottshouser was dead. If nothing else, the incredible radiance of the surroundings convinced him – white marble everywhere, opulent but tacky. That, and even though he must have been on line for a very long time, his back wasn’t sore and he didn’t have to pee. And at that moment it all came together in his mind -- he was on the line for the Last Judgment he had heard so much about.

Norman Pottshouser looked at the various angels who were unsmilingly keeping the line moving, and the seraphim droning over the scene, their tiny wings buzzing. Norman Pottshouser then looked down and noticed he was clad in a white robe and admired the gilt piping on the sleeves. Maybe, he thought, being dead won’t be too bad after all. But then he looked straight ahead, and there was God, the Author, the Creator, right in front of him. Surprisingly, he was a white man with a beard.

God dismissed the person He was finished judging and beckoned Norman forward. An angel sitting next to Him gave Him the divine equivalent of a 3 by 5 index card, and Norman Pottshouser was called before the Lord

.

“So, you’re Norman Pottshouser?” God asked rhetorically. “Yes, yes, I created you – Lebanon, Pennsylvania, wasn’t it?” Norman Pottshouser might have taken encouragement from this friendly byplay, but God avoided eye contact and turned back to his notes.

“You were a retired air conditioning contractor, it says here. Married, three children, three grandchildren, only 66 years old.” Norman Pottshouser shrugged embarrassedly – it did seem fairly young. “Well, they told you to cut the carbs and get some exercise,” God said dismissively and scanned the card, then exclaimed, “Aha! Look at this! If I have this right – and I do – forty years ago, you were standing on a bridge overlooking a trolley track. There was a fellow next to you. At that moment, a trolley came careening down the tracks without brakes. You then noticed a switch had been set incorrectly and, if left unchanged, the trolley was heading for derailment, taking all those on board to certain deaths. So, you grabbed the person next to you and threw him onto the track, and the impact of his body on the switch stopped the trolley before a terrible cataclysm could occur.” God paused and looked up at Norman Pottshouser. “That was quick thinking on your part.”

Norman Pottshouser looked about to see if he was now expected to talk. “Well, of course,” he began hesitatingly, “it was an incident that lived with me forever. There were legal consequences. But I made the calculation the loss of one life would avert the loss of many, and by assuming agency over myself and my actions, the worse outcome was avoided.”

“By murdering a stranger?” God replied disbelievingly.

“I know, it was regrettable, and it turned out he was a minister, which was upsetting. But,” Norman Pottshouser brightened, “he did have a terminal disease.”

“Which he didn’t know about.”

Norman Pottshouser nodded. “So, I spared him the pain of finding out, as I see it. And I contributed to a better world, net net, of course. I regret his having to die and one wishes it hadn’t have happened –"

“Having to die? Having to happen? Why didn’t you just jump off the bridge yourself?”

Norman Pottshouser smirked involuntarily. “Well, I’m not crazy. Besides, if I had given myself up, I wouldn’t have survived to learn whether the expected outcome was achieved. I think a big part of the motivation for making these choices is finding out how they turn out.”

God scoffed. “Oh, I see. Well, the penalty for choosing to end the life of another, a malfeasance referred to in the Ten Commandments, usually is damnation.”

The word caused Norman Pottshouser’s soul to startle. He could see his line of argument was getting him nowhere. “But look -- there were a trolleyload of people and only one of him. Sure, he was a minister and a very fine fellow, leaving aside the terminal illness of which he was unaware, so let’s say there were twenty? -- a hundred? -- people on that trolley and only one – OK, with his ministry, call it one-and-a-half -- of him. Anyway you do the math –”

“Silence!” God commanded. “Your comparisons are odious – one life versus many! Who made you God?” It was a particularly biting remark, coming from Him.

“OK,” Norman Pottshouser replied. “Then let me just ask you this. What if the trolley was full of school children? Or nuns? Blind nuns,” he improvised, but then wondered whether He would see that as a special case or not.

“It wasn’t.”

“But what if it was? What if the fellow I threw over the edge didn’t hit a trolley but instead landed on a button that prevented World War Three?”

“There is no such button.”

“What if the fellow I threw over was Hitler’s father?”

God’s brow furrowed angrily as the angels in the area stifled their tittering. “Another Hitler’s father!” God scoffed. “Gee, I never heard that one before! Well, Hitler’s father is not in play, as they say.”

“But what if –”

“What if, what if!” God exclaimed. “Look, you decided to be the instrument of social good, which was very noble, although you were also protecting yourself as well by not volunteering to die. And you did so knowing there would be consequences, and now you’re facing them. Don’t be a wimp.” He turned to the angel holding the index cards. “Get him out of here.”

Two other angels took Norman Pottshouser by the arms and led him away. Norman Pottshouser realized what was happening and became a trembling mass of rage and fear. “It’s not fair! I did the right thing! You can’t do this!” he cried as he was dragged away, although it was patently evident that He could. In a moment, Norman Pottshouser’s soul was remanded to purgatory and God turned to the angel with the index card for the next case.

The angel dutifully handed it to Him, but then spoke.

“If I may, Lord…Just yesterday, in a manner of speaking, you had a fellow in front of you named Petrovsky who was driving his family in a van on a two-lane road and was about to hit a sinkhole and flip over a dangerous escarpment, so he swerved into an oncoming bicyclist. And yet you gave Petrovsky entry to Paradise. As I understand it, these are all variants on a classic problem in philosophy called “The Trolley Problem,” which was first put forward in 1967 by Philippa Foot, in which she considers the bad consequences of good deeds..

“Yes, I remember her – came through here about ten years ago, wasn’t it?” God scratched His hoary head, trying to recollect. So many souls…

“Yes, Lord. But may I ask, what is the difference between that case and this one?”

God shrugged. “Well, it’s just one of those fascinating questions, isn’t it? There’s really no right answer.”

“But if that’s the case –”

"Well, you know what they say," God replied. '"'Life's a bitch and then you die.' Next!"

The Turkey Pardon

Each year, a turkey is delivered to the White House for a Presidential pardon, after which the lucky turkey will live a life of indolence on a farm or petting zoo. But can this popular ritual survive the current tumultuous atmosphere? This year’s designee, a 55 pound, broad-breasted tom named Jive, has grave concerns.

The several hundred other turkeys penned in around him on the feedlot tried to cheer him up. “Why the long beak?” they asked.

“It’s a mockery of the democratic process!” the lucky turkey announced. “Why should President Trump decide whether to pardon me? A decision of this importance – particularly of importance to me – should be left to the American people. Becoming a pardoned turkey is a lifetime appointment – my lifetime. It would be wrong to let a president decide whether to pardon a turkey this late into his term! We should wait until a new President takes office and let him decide whether to pardon me. Let the people vote, I say. In fact, the people have voted, which makes my point, doesn’t it? The people have rejected Trump as a President, so why should we trust him to pardon me? It would be a gross violation of a cherished political tradition.”

“But what about precedent?” some of the older turkeys argued. “Daddy Bush pardoned a turkey in 1992, even though he’d already lost an election to Bill Clinton. The same for Clinton with W. And Obama pardoned a turkey after Trump had been elected weeks before. The President’s elected for four years, not three years, so he ought to pardon four turkeys, not three,” they argued.

“Yeah, yeah,” the turkey interrupted testily. “But those situations were completely dissimilar. The White House was controlled by one party and the Senate by another when those turkeys were pardoned. Now they’re controlled by the same party, and that makes it a totally different situation.”

The other turkeys were confused by this reasoning “What does that have to do with anything? Who cares if –"

“I know, I know,” the lucky turkey cut them off with some embarrassment. “It’s just an argument I’m trying out. I heard Mitch McConnell say it, and he’s obviously got some turkey in him, so I thought, who cares if It doesn’t make any sense? I’m a desperate bird.”

The other turkeys tried to soothe the lucky turkey’s negative attitude. “Come on, man. You’re going to the White House and Trump is going to pardon you. It’s a piece of cake.”

“The hell it is,” the lucky turkey said irately. “You think Trump is going to pardon me? Do I look like Joe Arpaio to you? Do you expect Kim Kardashian to catch her husband in a butterfly net and go to the White House to plead my case for me, like I was some kind of drug dealer?” The lucky turkey stared into the distance as if having a thought. “Maybe if I had the goods on Trump, like Roger Stone did...” But the lucky turkey quickly recognized the unworkability of this plan. “Nah. Face it, man. I’m doomed.”

The other turkeys tried to reason with him. “This is just a feel good story for whoever is doing the pardoning, an easy PR win,” a savvy turkey argued.

“Yeah, sure,” the turkey snorted. “It’s as easy as condemning white supremacists. Trump’s going to look at me and think ‘This turkey’s worth hundreds of dollars, and once the IRS disallows my bogus tax refund and the banks want their $400 million back, I’ll be broke. Why should I give the turkey away?’ Oh, sure, first he’ll put me in a room at the Trump International on the government’s tab, I’ll give you that. But then, Trump’s old lady will look at me and say, ‘Why should we give turkey away? Let’s eat it!’ And then his sons will set me loose on the South Lawn so they can hunt me with bows and arrows. I’m in a dark place, man.”

“But the Presidential turkey pardon is a treasured American tradition,” the other turkeys argued. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Opposing foreign intervention in our elections was an American tradition. So was having empathy for people with a highly contagious disease. You think I’m going to get a better result than the right to vote or the victims of a plague?” The lucky turkey shook his head dejectedly. “I am so screwed.”

The other turkeys continued to accentuate the positive. “You’re going to end up on a farm so kids can pet you. You’re set for life.”

“Big whoop -- how long is that?” the lucky turkey groused. “Look at me. I can barely carry my own weight across the feedlot. I’m shot up with hormones that leave me vulnerable to every disease known to birds, and if I’m not slaughtered for dinner I’ll be ground up for animal feed. And now the good news is that a bunch of obnoxious toddlers can poke me through a fence until I die? Spare me.”

Sure enough, at that moment, the foreman walked over, threw the lucky into a cage, put the cage in the back of the truck, drove to Washington, D.C., and – to be fair, as the lucky turkey had predicted -- got a suite for them at the Trump International on Pennsylvania Avenue. The turkey had a drink from the minibar and contemplated his situation, when a strategy suddenly came to him.

Could it work? It was his only chance.

The next morning he was brought to the Rose Garden and placed before the President. A swarm of photographers’ shutters sounded like a steroidal cicada infestation. Those White House staffers who were not yet infected smiled masklessly. Those staffers who were infected smiled masklessly as well. The President came out to where the lucky turkey was positioned and posed with it, flashing his signature thumbs up. And when he was about to read his remarks, the lucky turkey grabbed the microphone from him and announced to the crowd,

“I hereby pardon the President of the United States.”

The camera clicked and whirred, the President smiled, and the tradition of pardoning a turkey on Thanksgiving was maintained, even in these turbulent times.