Micah Saunders

Time to Go - A short play in one act

(Lights up.)

(A park bench sits center stage. A young man, HAWTHORNE, sits on one end of it. He types erratically on a computer placed on his lap. He is focused intently. Birds chirp in the distance. After some time, an older man, the STRANGER, enters. He is wearing a suit and hat, carries a briefcase, and walks with a cane. He sees HAWTHORNE on the bench and approaches the other side of it.)

STRANGER
Excuse me, is this seat taken?

HAWTHORNE

(Startled.)
Huh?

STRANGER
This seat, next to you, on the bench, is it taken?

HAWTHORNE
Oh, no. Go ahead.

(HAWTHORNE resumes typing. The STRANGER sits.)

STRANGER
Thank you. Thank you.

(Beat.)

STRANGER (Cont.)

I am surprised the park is not more busy this time of day. I can remember a time when children would get out of school and spend their entire afternoons playing in the park. Running around. Chasing each other. Oh, what fun. I suppose children have no interest in such things anymore. What a pity.

(Beat.)

Do you know my favorite part of going to the park?

(The STRANGER waits for an answer from HAWTHORNE, who is reengaged in his computer, but does not receive one. He continues regardless.)

Feeding the birds. Something about it gives me such joy. Sometimes, if they trust you enough, they may let you touch them. They may even let you pick them up! Oh, what a delight! To hold another life in your hands, as it sits there, unafraid, as it trusts you, there is no greater pleasure to me in the world. Oh, and their singing! How beautiful.

HAWTHORNE
(Finally looking up.)
Excuse me, sir?

STRANGER
Yes?

HAWTHORNE
I’m sorry, but I’m very busy. I don’t have time to make conversation about birds. I apologize, but you will have to find someone else to talk to.

STRANGER
Oh, I’m very sorry.

(Beat.)

What are you working on?

HAWTHORNE
(Sighing.)
I’m writing.

STRANGER
Ah.

(Beat.)

Writing what?

HAWTHORNE
Sir, please!

STRANGER
Of course, of course. My apologies.

(HAWTHORNE returns to writing. The STRANGER sits in silence beside him. He opens his briefcase and produces a small bag of birdseed. He begins to scatter it in front of him. He stands and begins to scatter some behind the bench as well. While behind the bench, he peers over HAWTHORNE’s shoulder and looks at the computer.)

STRANGER (Cont.)
(Reading a title.)
“The Birds”. I think Aristophanes beat you to that one already.

(Startled and a little embarrassed, HAWTHORNE quickly shuts the laptop.)

HAWTHORNE
Excuse me!

STRANGER

(Sitting back down.)
Apologies. I was simply curious, I couldn’t help myself.

HAWTHORNE
I ask that you do help yourself, old man.

STRANGER
I’m very sorry, Mr. Hawthorne.

HAWTHORNE
Well, I-

(Pause.)

…How do you know my name?

STRANGER
(Chuckling.)

Well, I must admit, I knew who you were even before I sat down. I am something of a fan of your work, Mr. Hawthorne.

HAWTHORNE
(Mildly impressed.)

Are you now? There aren’t many of those.

STRANGER
I find you… strangely underrated. Your work often inspires me to write myself.

HAWTHORNE
You write?

STRANGER
On occasion. As a hobby. My profession often leaves me alone for long periods of time. I so rarely get to interact with people, as we are now. In my boredom, I find myself often with a pen to the page.

HAWTHORNE
And what do you do?

STRANGER
A complex question, Mr. Hawthorne. I suppose you could call me an accountant of sorts. I manage numbers, speak to clients, and handle situations that my department needs sorted. And you? What do you do?

HAWTHORNE
I’m a writer, as you well know.

STRANGER
Full-time?

HAWTHORNE

…No. I do odd jobs to make ends meet. Writing is not as profitable as some might believe.

(Beat.)

I’m sorry, you know who I am, but I don’t believe I got your name.

STRANGER

(Laughing.)
That is for a very good reason. Mr. Hawthorne, I am afraid my name is of very little significance. What matters is that I am here, not what people should choose to call me.

HAWTHORNE
(Amused.)

You know, you’ve been quite mysterious since you sat down. You won’t tell me what you do, you won’t even tell me your name. Should I be afraid of you, old man?

STRANGER
Many are frightened of me, but I have always seen that as quite silly. To be frightened of an inevitability is foolish, don’t you think?

HAWTHORNE

(Losing amusement, mostly confused.)
You’re an inevitability?

STRANGER
I am. People spend their whole lives running from me, but none can escape me.

HAWTHORNE
Now you’re talking in riddles.

STRANGER
Not a riddle. A simple fact. To deny me is to deny the end of something finite. To deny that all men eventually return to the dirt.

HAWTHORNE

(Sarcastically.)
And that would make you, what, Death itself?

STRANGER
Some have called me that.

HAWTHORNE
And you’re here to kill me, I suppose?

STRANGER
No. Of course not. I do not kill anyone. I simply take them when it is their time to go. I have been with you since the beginning, Mr. Hawthorne, and it is your time.

(HAWTHORNE, clearly destitute of the amusement this conversation once gave him, stands with his belongings and begins to exit.)

HAWTHORNE
Crazy old man.

STRANGER
Your name is Alexander Hawthorne.

(HAWTHORNE stops and turns back to look at the STRANGER.)

STRANGER (Cont.)

You are a struggling writer. You are twenty-six years old and you live alone in a small apartment on the west side.

HAWTHORNE
Is that supposed to impress me? You said you were a fan. Any fan could find that information easily.

STRANGER
You were first published in a magazine for creative youths at thirteen. But you’ve been writing since you were six. Your mother has held onto the first poem you ever wrote, a story about a knight who slays dragons. At least, that was until she passed four years, two months, and eleven days ago, after which you inherited all of her belongings, including the poem which now sits on your nightstand. Since writing it, your life has been rife with struggle. Destitution, an abusive relationship, drug addiction, and one attempt on your own life eleven months, four days, six hours, and…

(The STRANGER checks a pocketwatch.)

…Two minutes ago.

HAWTHORNE
(Aghast.)
How… How do you know all that?

STRANGER
As I said, Mr. Hawthorne, I have been with you since the very beginning. And here I am, at the very end.

(HAWTHORNE slumps down on the bench.)

HAWTHORNE
And I die today?

STRANGER
…Yes.

HAWTHORNE
If you’re… Death, then that means you took my mother as well?

STRANGER
I did indeed.

HAWTHORNE
Because it was her time to go?

STRANGER
It was.

HAWTHORNE

She was a young woman! Not even fifty!

STRANGER
Fate can be cruel.

HAWTHORNE
It would seem to me that you’re the cruel one.

STRANGER
You are welcome to blame me. That does not change fate.

(HAWTHORNE sits in quiet contemplation for a moment.)

HAWTHORNE
May I ask you a question?

STRANGER
Of course.

HAWTHORNE
You mentioned my… attempt.

STRANGER
Yes. A dark period in your life.

HAWTHORNE
It wasn’t my time to go then. But what if I had succeeded?

STRANGER
I would have taken you regardless. Yes. I was there. I waited for you, even then. Just in case. But it saddened me deeply to do so.

HAWTHORNE
It saddened you?

STRANGER
Indeed.

HAWTHORNE
Why?

STRANGER
(Simply.)
It was not your time to go.

HAWTHORNE
Why would that upset you? If your job is just to take the living and deliver them to the land of the dead, why does it matter to you if I was… ahead of schedule? What difference does it make?

STRANGER
It makes all the difference in the world, Mr. Hawthorne. There is nothing more beautiful than life. I’m sure you can see why I, of all people, would believe such a thing. Or, perhaps that is rather difficult to believe considering my job? Regardless, life is a precious thing. To throw it away prematurely… Well, I won’t call it wasteful, as that seems insensitive to the situation you found yourself in, but I would call it a tragedy nonetheless. Yes, it fills me with a great satisfaction to know you were able to live your life to its conclusion.

HAWTHORNE
At twenty-six?

STRANGER
Fate can be cruel, as I said. Yes, your life was rather short, but it was your life, and yours alone.

HAWTHORNE
And the life I lived, was it a good one?

(The STRANGER sighs. Beat.)

STRANGER
No. No, it was not a good life. You did not live a good life. Nor has anyone in the history of the world. When people use the words ‘good’ or ‘great’, they often mean ‘perfect’. And your life, my friend, was anything but perfect. You struggled, felt immense pain. You suffered greatly. It is not for me or even you to say whether your suffering was greater than anyone else’s, but you suffered. However, it is that suffering that makes life worth living, in the end. The bitterness and sourness makes the good taste all the sweeter. Would a lover’s embrace feel quite so comforting if one had not felt the coldness of solitude? No, you didn’t live a ‘good’ life. But it was your life that you lived. Uniquely yours.

HAWTHORNE
And when this life is over, when you take me, which I imagine will be rather shortly, where will I go?

STRANGER
How do you mean?

HAWTHORNE
Heaven, Hell? Limbo, purgatory, Elysium, Valhalla? The abyss, just an endless black void of nothingness after death? What will become of me? What waits for me?

(Beat.)

Will my mother be there to greet me?

STRANGER
I cannot say.

HAWTHORNE
Why?

STRANGER
Because I do not know. It is merely my job to deliver. I am nothing more than a courier. What waits for you beyond the veil, well, I couldn’t say because that decision is made by someone… Someone with a slightly higher paygrade.

HAWTHORNE

(Standing.)
Then I am ready to find out.

STRANGER
What?

HAWTHORNE
Take me now. I’m ready.

STRANGER
Not yet. It’s not your time yet.

HAWTHORNE
What? But I thought you were here to take me!

STRANGER
I am. But…

STRANGER (Cont.)

(Checking pocketwatch.)
You still have a few moments left. Enjoy it.

(HAWTHORNE sits back down. He listens to the birds.)

HAWTHORNE
The birds. Their singing really is beautiful.

STRANGER
Isn’t it?

(A long, peaceful silence. HAWTHORNE takes in the ambience. The STRANGER sits beside him. Finally, the STRANGER checks his pocketwatch again. He stands.)

Alright. Time to go.

(Blackout.)

THE END