understand, Mr. Crystal’s a very busy man, Kim. Do you mind if I call you Kim?
Right, we did. I remember. Sorry.
Okay. Anyway. A little ad-lib and it’s 9:10. I have it all here on my clipboard, see? To the minute. At 9:10 there’s some business with the lights, then the Girls bring out the Presidents of the Common Market, the African Federation, the Americas, Pacific Rim, etc. Five gentlemen, one of them a lady this year, I believe. There’s a brief statement; nothing elaborate. “Your great courage, protecting our way of life” sort of thing. A few words on how the Lottery works, since this was the first year people were allowed to buy tickets for others.
I’m sorry you feel that way. I’m sure voluntary would be better. But somebody must have bought you a ticket; that’s the way it works.
Anyway. Okay. Where were we? 9:13, the Presidents. They have a plaque that goes to your family after. Don’t take it; it’s just to look at. Then a kiss; right, handshake. Sorry. I’ll make a note of it. Then they’re out of here, Stage Right. Don’t worry, the Girls manage all the traffic.
Okay. 9:14, lights down, then up on the Native People’s presentation. You’re still standing here, Stage Left, watching them, of course. You might even like it. Three women and three men, clickers and drums and stuff. While the women dance, the men chant. “Science, once our enemy, now our brother” sort of thing. You’ll feel something on the back of your neck; that’s the wind machine. They finish at 9:17, cross to here, give you a kind of bark scroll. Take it but don’t try to unroll it. It’s 9:18 and they’re out of here, Stage Left. That’s the end of the—
What? No, the corporations themselves don’t make a presentation. They want to keep a very low profile.
Anyway. Okay. It’s 9:19 and that’s the end of the warm-up, as we call it. The Host comes back out, and you walk with him—here, let’s try it—across to Center Stage. He’ll help you stay in the spotlight. He admires the scroll, makes a joke, ad-lib stuff; don’t worry about it. He’s done it every year now for six years and never flubbed yet.
There won’t be so many wires underfoot tonight.
Okay. It’s 9:20. You’re at Center Stage, toes here. That’s it, right on the mark. There’s more business with the lights, and the Host introduces the President of the International Institute of Environmental Sciences, who comes out from Stage Left. With the Donut. We don’t see it, of course. It’s in a white paper sack. He sets it here, on the podium in front of you.
He stands out there, those green marks are his—we call him the Green Meany—and gives his Evils of Science rap, starting at 9:22. “For centuries, poisoned the Earth, fouled the air, polluted the waters, etc., etc.” It’s the same rap as last year but different, if you know what I mean. A video goes with it; what we call the sad video. You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to, just look concerned, alarmed, whatever. I mean it all really happened! Dead rivers, dead birds, dioxins. Two minutes’ worth.
Okay. Anyway. It’s 9:24, and he starts what we call the glad video. Blue sky, birds, bears, etc. Gives the Wonders of Science rap where he explains how they have managed to collect and contain all the year’s toxic wastes, pollutants, etc., and keep them out of the environment—
How? I don’t know exactly. I never listen to the technical part. Some kind of submolecular-nano-mini- mumbo-jumbo. But he explains it all, I’m pretty sure. I think there’s even a diagram. Anyway, he explains how all the toxic wastes for the year have been collected and concentrated into a single Donut. The fiscal year, by the way. That’s why the Ceremony is tonight and not New Year’s Eve.
Okay. Anyway. Hands you the bag. Exits Stage Right, 9:27. Now it’s just you and the Host, and of course, the Donut, still in the bag.
It might be a little greasy. You can hold it at the top if you want to. Whatever.
Anyway. Okay. It’s 9:28. You’ll hear a drumroll. It might sound corny now but it won’t sound corny then. I know because I’ve been here every year for six years, standing right over there in the wings, and I get a tear in my eye every time. Every damn time. The camera pulls in close. This is your moment. You reach in the bag and—
Huh? It looks like any other donut. I’m sure it’ll be glazed, if that’s what you requested.
Okay. Anyway. 9:29, but don’t worry about the time. This is your moment. Our moment, really, everybody in the world who cares about the environment, and these days that includes everybody. You reach in the bag, you pull out the Donut—
What happens next? I get it, still joking. I admire somebody with your sense of humor. Kim.
Anyway. Okay. We all know what happens next.
You eat it.
CANCION AUTENTICA DE OLD EARTH
“Quietly,” our guide said.
Quietly it was.
We glided over ancient asphalt, past ghost-gray buildings that glowed in the old, cold light of a ruined Moon that seemed (even though we have all seen it in pictures a thousand times) too bright, too close, too dead.
Our way was lighted by our photon shadow guide, enclosing us and the street around us in an egg of softer, newer light.
At the end of a narrow lane, four streets came together in a small plaza. At one end was a stone church; at the other a glass-and-brick department store facade; both dating (my studies corning through at last) from the High European.
“There’s no one here,” one of us said.
“Listen…” said our guide.
There came a rumbling. A synthesizer on a rubber-tired wood-and-wire cart rolled into the plaza out of an alley beyond the department store. It was pulled by an old man in black sweaters, layered against the planet’s chill, and a boy in a leather jacket. An old woman, also all in black, and a smiling man who looked to be about forty walked behind. His smile was the smile of the blind.
“They still live here?” someone asked.
“Where else could they live?”
They stopped and a small yellow dog jumped down from the cart. The old man opened the synthesizer’s panels and connected its cables to a moldering fuel cell. Sparks flew. The boy took a dirty bundle from the cart and unwrapped a strat and a tambourine. He handed the tambourine to the blind man.
The old lady carried a black vinyl purse. She watched not them, but us; and I had the “feeling” she was trying to remember who we were.
The blind man was smiling past us, over us, as if at a larger crowd that had come into the plaza behind us. He was so convincing that I even “turned” to look. But of course, the plaza was empty. The city was empty except for us and them; the planet was empty. It had been empty for a thousand years, empty while the seas fell and rose then fell again; empty since the twist.
The old lady watched while our guide flowed out and narrowed into a crescent, arranging us in a half circle around the musicians. Her face was as rough as the stones of the front of the church; her facade as fallen in.
Except for the boy’s leather jacket, which was too shiny, everything they wore was old. Everything was cheap.
Everything was black or gray.
The old man switched on the synthesizer and started to play chords in blocks of three. An electronic drumbeat kept time, a slow waltz. After a few bars the boy came in on the strat, high wailing tremolos.
“What about the singing?” someone complained in a whisper. “We came all the way across the Universe”—a slight exaggeration!—“for the singing.”
“They used to sing for the tourists,” our guide said. “Now there’s only the occasional special group such as ours.”
The blind man began to dance. With the dog at his feet, he waltzed around our little half circle and then back, beating the tambourine first against the heel of one hand and then against his hip. Where his feet brushed our photon shadow guide, his shoes sparkled and looked almost new.
As suddenly as he had started, he stopped, and the old man spoke in a shout:
