NELSON: So Now I’ve been in Purgatory for a hundred and twenty-seven thousand and thirty-two years—
SEBATACHECK: Purga—
Something hits Sebatacheck and forces out a laugh.
NELSON: … and I’m awfully tired of it so if there aren’t any other problems, can I go to Heaven now?
He is lost in reminiscence. Nelson prods:
NELSON: I don’t mind if I have to sit at a tram stop for a year or two.
SEBATACHECK: I’m sorry. I just realized—you’re from before Disclosure.
NELSON: Huh?
Sebatacheck wears a smiles of nostalgia.
SEBATACHECK: Jesus. I’d forgotten how we used to …
NELSON: Disclosure?
SEBATACHECK: Yeah, they decided to stop kidding people. We tell them up front now.
NELSON: Tell them?
SEBATACHECK: That they’re in Hell.
Nelson can’t quite take this in.
NELSON: Who is.
SEBATACHECK: You are. You people.
Nelson solemnly shakes his head.
NELSON: No, I’ve been in Purgatory. I’ve been waiting to go to Heaven. In the waiting room.
Sebatacheck shakes his head. His speech is patient, a little too loud, and meticulously enunciated, as if Nelson were a dull child.
SEBATACHECK: We were pulling your leg. We were teasing. You stay here.
NELSON: …Teasing?
SEBATACHECK: Yes. False hope. But we’ve stopped doing that. We stopped a long time ago.
NELSON: So… when am I going to Heaven?
SEBATACHECK: You’re not going to Heaven. We were just pretending. But now we’re telling people. They’ve decided that despair is more effective, so now we tell people. You’re in Hell. It’s eternal.
NELSON: So… I’m staying.
SEBATACHECK: That’s right. Forever. We tell people now—less fun for us; more effective for you people.
NELSON: I see.
SEBATACHECK: It’s more effective that way.
NELSON: I see.
SEBATACHECK: After Disclosure they cut us back. Couldn’t string people along if we wanted to. Don’t have the manpower.
NELSON: I see.
SEBATACHECK: OK?
NELSON: OK. I see. Thank you.
He stands there, nodding. At length Mr. Sebatacheck holds up the paperwork between two fingers.
SEBATACHECK: Do you want this back? Or should I drop it in the trash?
Nelson thinks.
NELSON: You can drop it in the trash. Thank you.
SEBATACHECK: OK.
He leans forward and does so, then goes back to his magazine. Nelson nods, slowly turns, but then stops and turns back.
NELSON: So… you’ve been OK, then?
SEBATACHECK: I’ve been fine. Thank you.
Nelson nods, for a good beat.
NELSON: I see.
He turns and shuffles toward the door. He stops and turns back with another thought.
NELSON: Is that a new magazine?
Eyes on the magazine, Sebatacheck goes back to his sing-song voice.
SEBATACHECK: Yes it i-is.
Nelson hesitates.
NELSON: … Can I borrow it?
Sebatacheck rolls his eyes, drops the magazine on his chest, and smiles thinly at Nelson.
SEBATACHECK: You know better than that, Mr. Nelson.
NELSON: Yes. I see.
SEBATACHECK: … OK?
NELSON: OK.
Nelson shuffles to the door, opens it –
NELSON: OK.
—and shuffles out, closing the door behind him. A beat. Sebatacheck licks a finger, turns the page. A thought sets him chuckling:
SEBATACHECK: … Ninety-nine thousand years … for cursing …
He shakes his head, smiling, his smile fades as he continues to read.
Excerpted from Almost an Evening by Ethan Coen © 2009. With permission from Three Rivers Press, an imprint of the Corwn Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc, N.Y.
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Ethan Coen made his Off-Broadway debut with the production of Almost an Evening in January 2008. He has written a collection of stories, Gates of Eden , and a collection of poems, The Drunken Driver Has the Right of Way. With his brother Joel, he has made 13 movies, including Raising Arizona; Barton Fink; Fargo; The Big Lebowski; O Brother, Where Art Thou?; and No Country for Old Men, which won Academy Awards for Best Picture and Best Director. His latest film is Burn After Reading.