Waiting for Warden Godot, Act I

With apologies to the ghost of Samuel Beckett.

Offender Estragon

Offender Vladimir

Trustee Lucky

Officer Pozzo

Warden’s Boy

A prison. 

Two rows of small cells, fronted by bars. All cells save two on the ground floor are obscured, but occasional movement by shadowy occupants can be seen. A figure lays in the bed of the leftmost unobscured cell. On the desk sits a roughly half-finished copy of Caspar David Friedrich’s Two Men Contemplating the Moon, a series of small containers holding pigment, and a cup filled with brushes. On the back wall, a similarly incomplete painting of the skeleton of a tree, sans leaves. In the cell on the right, a figure in a jacket and watchcap stands, facing audience. A single security light hangs from above. 

A winter’s morning.

Estragon, leaning up against the bars of his cell, is trying to insert a long piece of sharpened metal into the door’s locking mechanism. He struggles with the angle, putting pressure on the implement, panting. It slips out of the lock and he gives up, leans his forehead against the bars. He rests, tries again. As before. Enter Vladimir, rising from his bunk. He puts on a jacket and a watchcap. Rubs his hands together to warm them.

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

Vladimir:           (advancing to the front of the cell with short, stiff strides, legs wide apart.) I’m beginning to come round to that opinion. Ever since I first caught chain from Diagnostics, I’ve tried to put it from me, saying, Vladimir, be reasonable, they can’t break you or force you to give up your virtue without your consent. And I resumed the struggle. (He broods, musing on the struggle. Takes down a small piece of mirror from a hook on the wall and holds it through the bars, angled to the right.) So there you are again. 

Estragon:          Am I?

Vladimir:           I heard they were going to ship you.

Estragon:          They almost did. The sergeant made a smartass comment on the way to the showers yesterday, so I came out the cuffs and slapped the shit out of him. 

Vladimir:           (ironically.) Together again at last. We’ll have to celebrate. (Holds his hand out towards the adjoining cell.) Give me some skin, homeboy. 

Estragon:          (irritably.) Not now, not now.

Vladimir:           (hurt, coldly.) May one inquire where His Highness spent the night?

Estragon:          In the Observation Tank in the Infirmary.

Vladimir:           The Infirmary! You got to see the nurses? The Hispanic lady with the cute –

Estragon:          They saw me. It’s one-way glass. I only ever saw myself.

Vladimir:          (mutters.) Same as always, then. (Louder.) And they didn’t beat you?

Estragon:          Beat me? I slapped a ranking officer. Certainly they beat me.

Vladimir:          The same lot as usual?

Estragon:          The same? I don’t know. They had riot gear on. All pigs look alike to me now, in any case.

Vladimir:          When I think of it… all these years… but for me… where would you be…? (Decisively.) You’d be nothing more than a heap of bones in a cardboard coffin up at Peckerwood Hill, with nothing to mark your resting place other than a wooden plaque with your State ID number on it.

Estragon:          And what of it?

Vladimir:          (gloomily.) It’s too much for one man. (Pause. Cheerfully.) On the other hand, what’s the good of losing heart now, after all these decades? We should have thought of it a million years ago, in the nineties.

Estragon:          Ah, stop bumping your gums and help me get this goddam cell door open. The sarge is going to come around to gloat and I’ve got something for his punk ass.

Vladimir:          Side by side on the yard, a banger in each hand, spitting in the direction of the gun towers. We were respectable in those days. Now it’s too late. Now they don’t just shoot you dead. Now they drag your death out for decades. (Estragon flails angrily at the lock with his metal shaft.) What are you doing?

Estragon:          Trying to get out on the run. Haven’t you been paying any attention?

Vladimir:           You have to rig the mechanism while the door is already open. I’m tired of telling you that. It’s too late once it’s closed.

Estragon:          (feebly, holding his ribs with one hand, the steel tool with the other.) Help me!

Vladimir:          It hurts?

Estragon:          (angrily.) Hurts?! They played whack-a-mole with my ribcage. He wants to know if it hurts!

Vladimir:           (angrily.) No one ever suffers but you. I don’t count. I’d like to hear what you’d say if you had what I have.

Estragon:          It hurts?

Vladimir:          (angrily.) Hurts?! I still have boot imprints on my kidneys!

Estragon:          You should have put in a sick-call months ago.

Vladimir:           (holding his pelvis gingerly.) True. Never neglect the little things in life.

Estragon:          What do you expect? You always wait until the last moment.

Vladimir:          (musingly.) The last moment… (He meditates.) How often have I hoped for that?

Estragon:          Why don’t you help me? I know you rigged your door that time you whacked Wicho in the head with a fan motor.

Vladimir:          Sometimes I feel it coming all the same. Then I feel very strange. (He takes off his watchcap, peers inside it, feels about inside it, shakes it, puts it on again.) How shall I say? Fucking ecstatic and at the same time… (He searches for the word.) …appalled, that this is all I shall have been. That this is all that I will have been allowed to be. (With emphasis.) AP-PALLED. (He takes off his cap again, peers inside it.) Funny. (He shakes out the cap as though to dislodge a foreign body, peers into it again, puts it on again.) Nothing to be done. (Estragon tries to force his cell door open, then tires. Removes his own cap, peers inside it, feels about inside it, turns it upside down, shakes it, looks on the ground to see if anything has fallen out, finds nothing, feels inside it again, stares sightlessly before him.) Well. 

Estragon:          Nothing.

Vladimir:           Show.

Estragon:          There’s nothing to show. I need a longer shank to put more leverage on the mechanism.

Vladimir:          There’s man for you, blaming on his tools the faults of his mind. (He takes off his cap again, peers inside it, feels about inside it, knocks on the top, blows into it, puts it on again.) This is getting alarming. (Silence. Vladimir deep in thought, Estragon staring at the piece of steel in his hand.) The multiple authors of Job couldn’t agree on the point of it all, you know. (Pause.) In the prose folktale, suffering comes as a test of faith, and God deals with his people according to their merits. ln the poetry section, suffering remains a mystery and God does not give reasons for the evil done to man, and isn’t bound to do so. In the prose, Job is a patient sufferer; in the poetry, he is defiant. (Pause.) Gogo. 

Estragon:          What?

Vladimir:          We always resisted, we always fought. Maybe we should have just accepted everything? Allowed them to do whatever they wanted with us? What if we repented?

Estragon:          Being all patient and decent didn’t work out so well for Job’s children, did it? They got slaughtered all the same, so the big man could win his bet in the end. Maybe they should have fought a bit harder, you know? What was their sin?

Vladimir:          (reflective.) Being born, I guess.

Estragon:          That’s usually enough. All guiltless, meet reproach.

Vladimir breaks into a hearty laugh which he immediately stifles, his hand pressed to his pubis, his face contorted.

Vladimir:          One daren’t laugh any more.

Estragon:          Dreadful privation.

Vladimir:          Merely smile. (He smiles suddenly from ear to ear, keeps smiling, ceases as suddenly.) It’s not the same thing. Nothing to be done. (Pause.) Gogo.

Estragon:          (irritably.) What is it?

Vladimir:          What does it mean that the most famous book on suffering doesn’t really explain it at  all? Everyone always says to me, just go and read Job, you will understand the burden. All Job wanted was a divine audience so God could explain to him the meaning of his suffering. When God finally shows, all he does is slam his divine fist down on the table and insult Job for being merely mortal and for having had the temerity to demand an explanation.

Estragon:          I’m going.

He does not move.

Vladimir:          That’s not an explanation – that’s the exact opposite of an explanation. And then God gives Job ten new children, but what does this mean? Can the pain of a child’s death be removed by the birth of another? Were the six million Jews murdered in the Holocaust replaced? What was that heavenly bet even about? Are we all a part of another such wager? Is that why we suffer so? (Pause.) Come on, Gogo, return the ball, can’t you, once in a way? 

Estragon:          (with exaggerated enthusiasm.) I find this really most extraordinarily interesting.

Vladimir:          Could it have been for nothing, all these years?

Estragon:          (sighing.) The part that always pissed me off was all that stuff about man not having, you know, explored the depths of the sea, the breadth of the earth, all that business.

Vladimir:          Hast thou walked in search of the depth? Hast thou perceived the breadth of the earth? Declare if thou knowest it all. Where is the way where light dwelleth? And as for Darkness, where is the place thereof? Who hath divided a watercourse for the overflowing of waters, or a way for the lightning of thunder? 

Estragon:          Yeah, all that jazz. Well, we already did all of that.

Vladimir:          What?

Estragon:          God’s challenge to Job. We did all that. According to the logic of the book, Job had no right to challenge God because he was basically just an ignorant, Bronze Age sheepherder. But according to that same logic, we now do. Maybe that’s why God decided to abandon his little ant farm. No more divine audiences on request, or haven’t you noticed? That autocratic temper tantrum shit doesn’t fly no more, in any case. (Pause.) Except in the South.

Vladimir:          But the two parts of the story don’t agree.

Estragon:          Well? They don’t agree and that’s all there is to it.

Vladimir:          But it’s the book on suffering. And some people think it actually gives a coherent response to the problem of theodicy. 

Estragon:          People are bloody ignorant apes. We’re criminals. That’s enough of a justification for the public. With that, the pigs can do anything they want to us and the citizens won’t ever ask for more. (He lifts off the bars, removes his own piece of mirror from the wall, goes limping to the extreme left of his cell, looks in his mirror, screening his eyes from the security light. He turns, goes to the extreme right, gazes in his mirror. Vladimir watches him in his own mirror, then sets his mirror down. Estragon looks around his cell.) Charming spot. (He turns, looks directly towards the auditorium.) Nothing but broken, stinking animals. (He turns towards Vladimir.) I’m going to sleep. 

Vladimir:          You can’t.

Estragon:          Why not?

Vladimir:          We’re waiting for Warden Godot.

Estragon:          (despairingly.) Ah! (Pause.) You’re sure it was today he was going to do his inspection?

Vladimir:          That’s what his Boy said when he waxed the floors last week.

Estragon:          Are you certain it was today?

Vladimir:          He said Saturday. (Pause.) I think. 

Estragon:          You think.

Vladimir:          I must have made a note of it. (He rummages around in the paperwork on his desk, in and around the art supplies.) Hmm.

Estragon:          (very insidious.) But what Saturday? In seg, all the days are the same. Is it not rather Sunday? (Pause.) Or Monday? (Pause.) Or Friday?

Vladimir:          (looking wildly about him, as if for a calendar.) It’s not possible!

Estragon:          Or Thursday?

Vladimir:          What if we missed him?

Estragon:          We’d just have to wait another six months for the next walk-through. (Glances at his shank, speaks at a lower volume.) Maybe I’d better save this just in case… Certainly be more justice in the warden than the sarge… He’s more responsible…

Vladimir:          Surely one of these other idiots would have said something if he’d come?

Estragon:          Yes, trust the inmates. That’s worked out well for you in the past. (Pause.) Look, I could be wrong. Let’s stop talking for a minute, do you mind?

Vladimir:          (feebly.) All right. (Estragon lays down on his bunk. Vladimir paces agitatedly to and fro, halting from time to time to look at the painting on his desk, or out into the hallway with his mirror. Finally he tries to look into the adjacent cell.) Gogo!… Gogo!… GOGO!

Estragon wakes with a start.

Estragon:          (restored to the horror of his situation.) I was asleep! (Despairingly.) Why will you never let me sleep?

Vladimir:          I felt lonely.

Estragon:          I had a dream.

Vladimir:          I don’t want to hear about it.

Estragon:          I dreamt that –

Vladimir:          Don’t tell me!

Estragon:          (gestures towards the prison.) This one is enough for you? (Silence.) It’s not nice of you, Didi. I have to hear all of your pointless philosophizing, you can’t hear about my nightmares?

Vladimir:          All of our nightmares are the same. Different, but the same.

Estragon:          (coldly.) There are times when I wonder if it wouldn’t be better if I asked the Captain to move me to another wing. 

Vladimir:          You wouldn’t go far. Before long, we’d be neighbors again.

Estragon:          That would be too bad, really too bad. (Pause.) Wouldn’t it, Didi, be really too bad? (Pause.) When you think of all the places we might have gone? (Pause.) And all the people we might have met? (Pause.) Wouldn’t it, Didi?

Vladimir:          Settle the fuck down. You are just bored, is all.

Estragon:          I’m talking about existential terror!

Vladimir:          What I said. Although you’d have to live here for a few years before you really understood that. (Pause.) We’re supposed to be paying our debts to society, but then they stick us in solitary and give us nothing to do. It’s like they want us to be permanently indebted. Let me make some license plates at least, for God’s sake.

Estragon:          We don’t do that anymore.

Vladimir:          (surprise.) What? No plates?

Estragon:          Nothing. We contribute nothing. It’s not allowed.

Vladimir:           (slowly.) It’s like it’s more important for them that I remain labeled as evil than have any opportunity for redemption.

Estragon:          You’d mess up their perfect little picture, if you actually rehabilitated yourself.

Vladimir:          Their ideology.

Estragon:          Their politics.

Vladimir:           Their scapegoats. 

Estragon:          Their politics. (Pause.) In California, they let convicts fight wild fires.

Vladimir:          (brightening.) I’d like that very much.

Estragon:          Fuck all kinds of that shit. No way I’m getting my ass burnt off for these bastards. Let them burn. Let the whole thing burn. They deserve every flame, the way they treat the world like an immense latrine.

Vladimir:          I’d sign up immediately. I’d be good at it, too. Brave. They’d have to see me as human, if I died in service. They would no longer hate me. They’d have to say, see, this one, he started out rotten but he saved himself, somehow. He died as a human.

Estragon:          (mocking.) A hero.

Vladimir:          (ponders.) No. Not that. Just a man, again. It would be enough. (Pause.) At least it would be something. (Angrily.) Mock me all you want. It’s the only thing left for me to strive for. 

Vladimir turns his back on Estragon and goes to sit on his bunk, his head bowed, supported by his hands. Estragon uses his mirror to look towards his cell. Paces a few more times, sets his shank down on his desk. Blows on his hands to warm them. Uses the mirror again.

Estragon:          Didi.

Vladimir:          I’ve nothing to say to you.

Estragon:          (shifts weight from one foot to the other.) You’re angry? (Silence. Steps a little closer to the wall dividing them.) Forgive me. (Silence. Another small step. Tries to look into the adjoining cell.) Come, Didi. (Silence.) Give me your hand. (Vladimir removes his head from his hands, looks towards Estragon’s cell.) Embrace me! (Vladimir stands, then halts.) Don’t be stubborn! We’re all we have in this world! (Vladimir softens, walks to the front of his cell, clasps hands with Estragon.)

Vladimir:          Us against the world.

Estragon:          Same as always. (Sighs.) Same results, too.

Vladimir:          What do we do now?

Estragon:          Wait.

Vladimir:          Yes, but while waiting.

Estragon:          We could hang ourselves.

Vladimir:          Hmm. Revolutionary suicide. Send a hard message to bourgeois society with our deaths, all that.

Estragon:          Worked well in Jonestown, right? Right.

Vladimir:          I guess we could use the bars. But what would we use, a sheet? (He proceeds to his bunk and lifts a threadbare sheet up for inspection.) I wouldn’t trust it.

Estragon:          We can always try it.

Vladimir:          Go ahead.

Estragon:          After you.

Vladimir:          No, no, you first.

Estragon:          Why me? (Picks up his own sheet.) You can see right through this piece of shit.

Vladimir:          You’re lighter than I am.

Estragon:          Yeah, duh.

Vladimir:          I don’t understand.

Estragon:          Use that high-powered intellect, why don’t you?

Vladimir uses his intellect.

Vladimir:          I’m not putting two and two together.

Estragon:          (mutters.) It’s four. (Louder.) Sheets are thin, yes? Use your head, can’t you?

Vladimir:          You’re my only hope.

Estragon:          (with effort.) Gogo light – sheet maybe not tear – Gogo dead. Didi heavy – sheet tear – Didi alone. Whereas –

Vladimir:          I hadn’t thought of that.

Estragon:          If it hangs you it’ll hang anything.

Vladimir:          I’m really that much fatter than you?

Estragon:          So you tell me. I don’t know. My only mirror is hardly two centimeters square. There’s an even chance. Or nearly.

Vladimir:          Well? What do we do?

Estragon:          Nada. It’s safer.

Vladimir:          Let’s wait and see what he says.

Estragon:          Who?

Vladimir:           Warden Godot.

Estragon:          Good idea.

Vladimir:          Let’s wait till we know exactly how we stand.

Estragon:          On the other hand, it might be better to strike the iron before it freezes. (He glances towards the shank lying on his desk.) Or strike something. 

Vladimir:          I’m curious to hear what he has to say about our grievances and formal petitions to state classification. Then we’ll take it or leave it.

Estragon:          What exactly did we ask him for?

Vladimir:          You were there when I wrote all those letters. We talked about all of the options.

Estragon:          You know I have no mind for legalese. It was all just a fancy way of asking to be let back into the general population?

Vladimir:          Precisely.

Estragon:          A polite way of crawling on the floor on our knees whilst tugging on our forelocks. 

Vladimir:          Exactly.

Estragon:          We’ll never do it again. We learned our lesson.

Vladimir:          Bingo.

Estragon:          We’ve forgiven all. Forgotten everything. (Pause.) We love all pudgy, blatantly racist, unfailingly omnibothersome redneck fuckwads and the way they spend half their shifts bragging about their assault weapon tiny penis compensation devices and the other trying to indoctrinate others into their MAGA-spawned cult of nonevidence. We’d never even consider seeking revenge.

Vladimir:          Etcetera.

Estragon:          And what did he reply?

Vladimir:          That he’d see.

Estragon:          That he couldn’t promise anything.

Vladimir:          That he’d have to think it over.

Estragon:          In the quiet of his home.

Vladimir:          After consulting our disciplinary files.

Estragon:          The officials at state classification.

Vladimir:          His mental health quacks.

Estragon:          His baseline COs.

Vladimir:          His snitches.

Estragon:          (with emphasis.) Definitely his snitches.

Vladimir:          Before making a decision.

Estragon:          It’s the normal bullshit process beloved of petty bureaucrats since Shang Fang.

Vladimir:          Is it not?

Estragon:          I think it is.

Vladimir:          I think so too.

Silence.

Estragon:          Where do we come in?

Vladimir:          Come in?

Estragon:          Take your time.

Vladimir:          Come in? We don’t, I think. It’s entirely out of our hands now.

Estragon:          As bad as that?

Vladimir:          Your worship wishes to assert his prerogatives?

Estragon:          We’ve no rights at all anymore?

Laugh of Vladimir, stifled as before, less the smile.

Vladimir:          You’d make me laugh if it wasn’t prohibited.

Estragon:          We’ve lost all our rights?

Vladimir:          You lost them twice. The first time at trial when they banished you to the Island of Misfit Toys. The second when you got your dumb ass involved in that stupid riot.

Estragon:          It wasn’t stupid. It made sense at the time.

Vladimir:          It was over the chow. Seems stupid to me. Almost as stupid as me jumping up to have your back. 

Estragon:          It was over hunger. That’s a different thing entirely.

Vladimir:          (pause.) Fair enough.

Estragon:          They’re never going to let us out, are they? This is our fourth time in seg… it’s this dungeon until we die? We’re not completely fucked are – 

Vladimir:          Listen!

They listen, grotesquely rigid.

Estragon:          I don’t hear shit.

Vladimir:          Hsst! (They listen, each using their mirror to look down the run, first one way, then the other. Estragon turns the mirror on himself, loses balance, nearly falls into the wall separating the cells. They listen, each pressed against the dividing wall.) Nor I. 

Sighs of relief. They relax and separate slightly.

Estragon:          You gave me a fright. I thought they might be returning for round two.

Vladimir:          Who?

Estragon:          The Extraction Team.

Vladimir:          I thought it was he.

Estragon:          Who?

Vladimir:          Warden Godot.

Estragon:          Pah! The wind through the razor wire.

Vladimir:          I could have sworn I heard shouts. 

Estragon:          And why would he shout?

Vladimir:          Why not? Here, he can do anything he wants. Who is to tell him no? (Silence.) We tried, and look at us. 

Estragon:          (violently.) I’m hungry!

Vladimir:          Do you want a fruit stick? 

Estragon:          Is that all there is?

Vladimir:          I might have some mint sticks.

Estragon:          Give me a fruit stick. (Vladimir rummages around in the shelf below the bed, takes out a cylindrical piece of candy and gives it to Estragon, who unwraps it and takes a bite out of it. Angrily.) It’s a mint stick!

Vladimir:          Oh pardon! I could have sworn it was a fruit stick. (He rummages again under the bunk.) All that’s mint. (He rummages.) You must have eaten the last. (He turns to the desk, rummages.) Wait, I have it. (He brings out a fruit stick and gives it to Estragon.) There, homeboy. (Estragon tears off the wrapper and begins to chew on it.) Make it last, that’s the end of them. 

Estragon:          (chewing.) I asked you a question.

Vladimir:          Ah.

Estragon:          Did you reply?

Vladimir:          How’s the stick?

Estragon:          It’s high fructose corn syrup and food coloring. I’d give one of my fingers for a fresh carrot.

Vladimir:          He wants a carrot! Get arrested in a Blue State next time. (Pause.) What was it you wanted to know?

Estragon:          I’ve forgotten. (Chews.) That’s what pisses me off. (He looks at the candy appreciatively, dangles it between finger and thumb.) I’ll never forget this fruit stick. (He sucks the end of it meditatively.) During the pandemic, did anyone ever write you to say that they now understood what it was like to be locked down?

Vladimir:          No one ever writes me anymore. In the grand bazaar of prison penpals, nobody wants a mildly depressed middling thinker who produces weird homages to art that nobody recalls anymore.

Estragon:          I had a lady tell me that the entire country was like a solitary confinement wing.

Vladimir:          Oh, sure. What with her television.

Estragon:          And her internet.

Vladimir:          Her DoorDash.

Estragon:          Her Netflix.

Vladimir:          Her back porch.

Estragon:          Her pets.

Vladimir:          Her family.

Estragon:          Her ability to get in her car and go anywhere. (Pause.) It’s not really her fault.

Vladimir:          What? That freedom is wasted on the free?

Estragon:          Exactly. Even before the pandemic, the public was largely a pack of whiny little brats, wasting their lives, sitting in tiny boxes watching even tinier ones. Imagine how much would change in the world if everyone was required to serve an indeterminate sentence back here in seg. Just a couple of years would do the trick.

Vladimir:          Oh sure, they’ve ruined us and now you want to ruin everyone else. Quite a solution to the criminal justice reform puzzle.

Estragon:          It’s more a solution to the problem of overpopulation. (He raises what remains of the candy by the stub, twirls it by the wrapper before his eyes.) Funny, the more you eat the worse it gets.

Vladimir:          With me it’s just the opposite.

Estragon:          In other words?

Vladimir:          I get used to the bullshit as I go along.

Estragon:          (after prolonged reflection.) Is that the opposite?

Vladimir:          Question of temperament.

Estragon:          Of character.

Vladimir:          Nothing you can do about it.

Estragon:          No use struggling.

Vladimir:          One is what one is.

Estragon:          No use wriggling.

Vladimir:          The essential doesn’t change.

Estragon:          Nothing to be done. (He proffers the remains of the candy to Vladimir.) Like to finish it?

Off stage to the right, the loud click of a locking mechanism, followed by the slam of a heavy door getting kicked open. Enter Lucky, a trustee in a white uniform. He pushes a broom, has a rope tied around his neck that trails offstage.

Lucky:               (furtively.) I got that gas, maihn! I got them toonche sticks. Three dollahs good money or two fo’ five.

Estragon:          That shit any good?

Lucky:               Maihn, I ain’t even gone lie, this that five-star, this that man-down. Niggahs be gettin’ all stuck in the dayroom, fallin’ all over theyselves. 

Estragon:          Hell yeah. That’s what I’m talking about. You take flags?

Lucky:               Don’t need no stamps, playa. 

Estragon:          Come on, bro. This is a disciplinary wing. Half of us don’t got no food down here.

Lucky:               Sheeit. (Pause.) Aight, but I want three flags per dollah. 

Estragon:          (grumbles.) Goddam highway robbery. Fine. Hold up. (Estragon retreats to his desk, retrieves his shank and a stack of postage stamps, counts them out, and hands them to Lucky.) If this toon is lousy, you know we’re gonna have more than words. (He taps the bars with the shank.)

Lucky:               That’s overstood, foo. The game gods be watchin’, all my bidness square bidness. I’ma ‘bout to smoke me a stick myself presently.

Lucky hands two joints through the bars. Estragon places them in his shirt pocket. Lucky inserts the stamps into a hidden pocket inside the waist of his pants. Lucky looks at Vladimir, who shakes his head. Lucky moves down the line of cells. During the next few minutes, he can be seen exchanging items with other figures in cells.

Estragon:          (to Vladimir.) You want to hit one of these?

Vladimir:          You know I don’t.

Estragon:          Your loss. Fuck this reality. (Estragon removes a joint from his pocket, moves to the desk where he begins to insert a contraption into the electrical socket. A spark jumps, flame. Estragon takes a long inhale. Another bang from offstage to the right. Estragon drops his joint and tries to look inconspicuous. Enter Officer Pozzo, carrying a stool in one hand, the end of the rope tied to Lucky’s neck in the other. Hanging on his shoulder is a large see-through tote bag. On his belt, a whip hangs. He wheezes.) Who’s that?

Vladimir:          A bullet-riddled accordion, apparently.

Estragon:          Come on, man, I’m hot over here.

Vladimir:          (takes down mirror, looks.) Incoming, one morbidly obese Dunning-Kruger incarnation in gray pants. 

Estragon:          (exasperated.) For the love of… (Moves to the front of the cell. Officer Pozzo sets the stool down just to the right of Estragon’s cell. He sighs as he settles his girth.) Ah, that’s just some fat CO. I thought it was him.

Vladimir:          Who?

Estragon:          (suddenly feeling the effects of the drug, sways, grabs the bars for support. Tries to remember the name.) Err…

Vladimir:          Warden Godot?

Estragon:          Yeah. Him.

Pozzo:              Ain’t no REMFs here, just Pozzo.

Estragon:          That turquoise manatee just said he was Godot.

Vladimir:          Man, you out of there.

Estragon:          (timidly, to Pozzo.) You’re not Warden Godot, sir?

Pozzo:              I look like top brass to you, boy?

Vladimir:          (to himself.) You look like a quasi-sentient tub of suet, since you asked.

Estragon:          All uniforms look the same to me in this light. Which is really awesome. The light, 

I mean. Isn’t it awesome?

Pozzo:              That’s why you boys is in them cages. You don’t pay no ‘tention. Cain’t fix stupid. I said I’m Pozzo.

Estragon:          (thinking out loud.) Bozzo… Bozzo…

Vladimir:          (ditto.) Pozzo… Pozzo…

Pozzo:              Pozzo, you dumb sumbitches!

Estragon:          Ah! Pozzo… Let me see… Pozzo…

Vladimir:          I once knew a family called Gozzo. The mother had the clap. The father was an orangutan. Any relation?

Pozzo:              Well ain’t you a sharp one. Careful you don’t cut yerself.

Vladimir:          You’re right, that wasn’t fair to the orangutan.

Pozzo:              You the one in the cage, monkeyboy. They say we all made in God’s image, but it’s hard to credit the Good Book when I takes me a gander of you scoundrels. (Resettles his weight.) How come you took me for Oh-One anyways? Ain’t like he’s likely to come round this way.

Vladimir:          We were told he was going to do an inspection today.

Pozzo:              Damn poltroons, you is. (Points at a derelict magazine lying on the floor. Jerks the rope.) Boy! Trash! (Takes out a plastic trash bag from his tote. Opens it. Lucky is seen trading items with another inmate down the line. He gives Pozzo a look of disdain.) Trash, nigger! (Lucky returns, sweeps up the magazine, picks it up, drops it in the bag.) Got to do everything practically by myself round this place. (Takes a long look at his watch, sighs. Sees more trash on the run. Removes the whip from his belt, uncurls it, lets it fly, producing a crack.) Trash! (Lucky collects this, places it in the bag. While his hands are touching Pozzo’s, he swiftly removes the officer’s watch, takes it with him as he sweeps. Lucky can be seen bartering the watch with another inmate stage left. He places several more items inside his hidden pocket.) Yessir, it’s a damn good thing I’ma excellent manager or else you boys’d be in real trouble. (He hangs the whip on his belt, then unslings the tote from his shoulder and starts to dig around inside it.) Might as well eat second lunch with you lot. (He removes a foot-long sandwich and a liter bottle of soda-pop. He unwraps the sandwich, sets it on his thigh, twists off the bottle’s cap. Vladimir looks from the sandwich to Pozzo to Lucky, repeats the cycle. Vladimir goes to his desk, returns with some spare pieces of paper, balls these, and then tosses them on the floor while Pozzo is taking a long gulp of soda. Pozzo lowers the bottle and sees the balled up paper.) Trash, goddamit! Boy, how many times I gotta tell yo’ stupid ass! (Lucky sweeps over, picks up the balls of paper and places them in the sack Pozzo holds up. As Pozzo arranges this, Lucky breaks off three inches of the sandwich and tucks it away. Pozzo hangs the sack on his belt. Lucky can be seen trading the sandwich for stamps with Vladimir. Pozzo takes a bite of his sandwich, then a big gulp of soda. Vladimir tosses out more trash.)

Vladimir:          Erm… Officer Pozzo?

Points at trash.

Pozzo:              Dadgum. See what I mean?

Vladimir:          Clearly, he’s an idiot of some kind.

Estragon:          Absolutely retarded.

Vladimir:          A weapons-grade cretin.

Estragon:          A few sandwiches short of a picnic. Erm…

Lucky looks up to heaven, sighs, then moves over to pick up the trash. Repeat of transfer to the bag and loss of three more inches of Pozzo’s sandwich. Lucky again sells this to Vladimir, who passes it to Estragon. Lucky moves off sweeping.

Pozzo:              I do what I can, but I swear this place would fall down if’n it tweren’t for me. 

Vladimir:          Working class hero.

Estragon:          (stuffs sandwich in mouth.) An inspiration to us all. (Pozzo removes a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, lights one up.) Hey… uh… I thought tobacco was illegal in state institutions. 

Pozzo:              For you.

Vladimir:          Pretty sure those laws apply equally to everyone. That’s why they’re called laws.

Pozzo:              Now who’s the retard? (Vladimir and Estragon both have the same thought at the same time and begin crumpling scraps of paper, throwing this all up and down the run. Pozzo, lost in contemplation, eventually notices.) Never-ending labors. Boy! Work! (Lucky sweeps in, picks up an item, returns to place it in the bag, steals half of the remaining sandwich. He hands this to Vladimir. Repeat of transfer to the bag for each piece of trash, with Lucky stealing items from Pozzo every time, including most of the cigarettes and the bottle of soda. Pozzo, holding the trash bag, takes off his hat, wipes sweat off his head with a handkerchief. Lucky takes the hat, passes it to Vladimir. Pozzo looks about blankly, as if something might be wrong. He shrugs to himself, sets the bag of trash down. Lucky moves down the run, selling cigarettes, the pocket in his pants beginning to bulge.)

Estragon:          Truly lazy. (Lights a cigarette with Pozzo’s lighter.)

Vladimir:          Nothing to be done.

Estragon:          An absolute disgrace.

Pozzo looks down at his thigh, at a nearly empty sandwich wrapper. He looks puzzled, shrugs. He takes the end of the rope and tugs on it, hard. Lucky changes course after giving Pozzo an evil eye.

Vladimir:          (finishing the last mouthful of sandwich.) It’s a scandal.

Silence. Still smoking, Estragon looks at Pozzo, then at the remaining piece of sandwich. Pozzo is outwardly calm.

Pozzo:              (to Vladimir.) Are you alluding to anything in particular, inmate? 

Vladimir:          To treat a man… (gestures towards Lucky)…like that… No… a human being… No… It’s a scandal! Tyrant!

Pozzo:              Ain’t no tyrants. Only slaves. ‘Member that, always.

Estragon:          (not to be outdone.) A disgrace. (Takes another hit off the cigarette.)

Vladimir:          I’m going. (Passes Pozzo’s soda bottle to Estragon.)

Estragon:          (Trying to inspect the contents of Pozzo’s tote for other goodies. Takes a swig.) So soon?

Pozzo:              One moment. (He wraps the rope more firmly about his wrist. Lucky moves back in the other direction, sweeping.)

Vladimir:          Fuck off, pig.

Pozzo:              He cain’t stand my presence no more. I ain’t what you might call partic’larly human, but who cares? How much time you got ina hole here?

Estragon:          This time? How long has it been since Slim escaped?

Vladimir:          Four years ago this March.

Estragon:          We both came to seg right after that lockdown.

Vladimir:          Man. It hasn’t even been four years yet.

Estragon:          Time passes slowly when you are frozen.

Pozzo:              I got me twenty-eight years down. What I am now was inevitable. (Looks at wrist, sees no watch, looks confused as he pats his pocket. Looks towards skylight.) Afternoon, then, at any rate. What’s it matter to you if Warden Godot don’t show? You hopin’ to get back to pop?

Vladimir:          Who told you?

Pozzo:              He speaks to me again! If this goes on much longer we’ll soon be old friends.

Estragon:          (looking at Lucky.) Why doesn’t he ever stop?

Pozzo:              I’d like to see Oh-One, too, for that matter. I’m a people person. The more people I see, the happier I become. From the meanest creature, one departs wiser and richer, or at least more confident in my ideological supremacy. Even you… (he waves his hand in a dismissive gesture) …even you scalawags will have added to my feelings of prosperity.

Estragon:          Why doesn’t he ever stop sweeping, dude? (Takes a surreptitious swig of Pozzo’s soda.)

Pozzo:              I have but to look at you to know that I am right in all things.

Vladimir:          You’re being asked a question, pig.

Pozzo:              (delighted.) A question! Who? What? A moment ago you was ready to stomp my face in. Now yer askin’ me questions. No good’ll come of this!

Vladimir:          (to Estragon.) I think he’s listening.

Estragon:          (still watching Lucky.) What?

Vladimir:          You can ask the australopithecine now. He’s on the alert.

Estragon:          Ask him what?

Vladimir:          Why he doesn’t stop sweeping.

Estragon:          I wonder.

Vladimir:          Ask him, fool.

Pozzo:              (who has been following these exchanges with disdain.) You want to know why he don’t never stop moving?

Vladimir:          That’s it.

Pozzo:              (to Estragon.) You are sure you agree with that?

Estragon:          He’s walked at least a mile since he came on the section.

Pozzo:              The answer is this.

Vladimir:          Here.

Estragon:          What is it?

Vladimir:          He’s about to speak.

Pozzo:              Good. You spalpeens ready? Is everyone looking at me? (He looks at Lucky, jerks on the rope. Lucky is in front of another cell, he accepts a lit joint from the occupant and takes a hit.) Will you look at me, boy?! (Lucky looks at him, joint between his lips.) Good. (He places his pack of cigarettes in the tote, takes out an asthma inhaler. He inserts the inhaler into his mouth, pushes down on the canister twice, inhales. He puts the inhaler into his shirt pocket, clears his throat, spits, takes out the inhaler again, takes another two puffs, puts the inhaler back into his pocket.) I am ready. Is everybody listening? Is everybody ready? (He looks at them all in turn, jerks on the rope.) Boy! (Lucky sneers at him.) I don’t like talkin’ in a vacuum. Good. Let me see.  (He reflects.)

Estragon:          I’m going to bed.

Pozzo:              What was it exacterly did you want to know?

Vladimir:          Why he –

Pozzo:              (angrily.) Don’t interrupt me! (Pause. Calmer.) If we all gon’ speak at the same time we ain’t never gon’ get ourselves nowheres. (Pause.) What was I sayin’? (Pause. Louder.) What was I sayin’?

Vladimir:          (mimics pushing a broom.) Your head is so far up your own ass you are French kissing your own tonsils.

Pozzo looks at him, puzzled.

Estragon:          (forcibly.) Broom. (He points at Lucky.) Why? Always moving. (He sags against the bars, panting.) Never puts down. (He opens his hands, straightens up with relief.) Why?

Pozzo:              Ah! How come you didn’t say so before? Why he don’t put himself at ease, now that I done directed him in his labors? Does he got the right? I suppose some might think so, given how soft we done becomin’ as a nation. I know there’s some what thinks of punishment as a instrument of rehabilitation, but I know you boys cain’t be reformed. Nosirree, punishment is a virtue of those what do the punishin’. In any case, I myself believe in the nobility of work. Ever since the Fall, that’s been our due. So no, he don’t got no right to relax. And even if’n he did, he wouldn’t want to. (Pause.) Ne’er-do-wells, the reason is this.

Vladimir:          (to Estragon.) Make a note of this.

Pozzo:              He wants to impress me, so that I’ll keep him.

Estragon:          What?

Pozzo:              Perhaps I ain’t said it right. He wants to mollerfy me, so that I’ll give up the idear of partin’ with him. No, t’ain’t exactly right neither.

Vladimir:          You want to fire him?

Pozzo:              He wants to cod me, but he won’t.

Vladimir:          You want to get rid of him?

Pozzo:              He imagines that when I see how well he follow orders I’ll be right tempted ta keep him on, ‘stead of sending him to yonder fields with all the rest of his kind.

Estragon:          You’ve had enough of him?

Pozzo:              In reality he sweeps like a fool. Got to get me a white man next time. Someone with some initiative. Then I can finally relax ‘round here.

Vladimir:          You want to get rid of him?

Pozzo:              He imagines that when I see him make that floor shine I’ll regret my decision to reassign him. Such is his miserable scheme. As though I don’t see right through him! As though I were short of slaves! (All three look at Lucky.) I had kin at San Jacinto! At Golead! (Silence.) Well, that’s that, I reckon. Anything else? (Uses inhaler.)

Vladimir:          ¿Te quieres deshacer con el?

Pozzo:              Fuck is you talkin’ Meskin for?

Vladimir:          You want to get rid of him?

Pozzo:              I do. The best thing would be to kill him, but they won’t let us do that no more, what with all them lib’rals they got in Austin. Them, and all the damned lawyers. It were simpler when I joined up. Ain’t had to know nothin’ ‘bout no laws then. Shit done got all complicated laterly. And here’s you a Texas-sized slice of irony pie: guess who done taught me what I can and cain’t do these days? (Pause. Pointing to Lucky.) That boy right there.

Vladimir:          (looking at skylight.) Will this never end?

Pozzo:              He used to whatyacallit? Pontificate all day about the law, how it were the only tool a poor man had ‘gainst the guvment.

Vladimir:          And now you turn him away? After all that free education?

Estragon:          (takes another drink of soda.) Swine!

Pozzo more and more agitated.

Vladimir:          After having sucked all the good out of him, you chuck him away like a… like a banana skin. Really!

Pozzo:              (groaning, clutching his head.) I cain’t bear it… any longer… the way he goes on… you’ve no idea… it’s terrible… he must go… (he waves his arms) …I’m going mad… (he sags on his stool, his head in his hands) …I cain’t hardly bear it… no more…

Silence. All look at Pozzo.

Vladimir:          He can’t bear it.

Estragon:          Any longer.

Vladimir:          He’s going mad.

Estragon:          It’s terrible.

Lucky sweeps by slowly, staggering a bit.

Vladimir:          (to Lucky, with heavy irony.) How dare you! It’s abominable! Such a good master! Crucify him like that! After so many years of… obvious kindness! Really!

Lucky swipes the pack of cigarettes out of Pozzo’s bag while his face is in his hands. Passes these to Estragon for more stamps. The bulge in his pants is now the size of a bowling ball.

Pozzo:              (sobbing.) He used to be so kind… so helpful… and entertaining… the perfect worker… Now he’s just so cold… so broken…

Vladimir:          There are no disorders here, only adaptive behaviors, pig.

Estragon:          (to Vladimir.) Does he want to replace him?

Vladimir:          What?

Estragon:          I don’t get it. Does he want someone else to take his place or not?

Vladimir:          I don’t think so. I think he’s really just bemoaning the changing world. Who cares, though? At this rate we’ll have all the remaining contents of his bag in an hour. Even if we don’t, when was the last time you saw a lawman this miserable? Enjoy this shit while you can. This is all the justice you are likely to see this year.

Pozzo:              (calmer.) Boys, I don’t know what come over me. Forget this whole business. (More and more his old self.) I don’t recollect exactly what it was, but you may be sure there weren’t no word of truth in it. (Drawing himself up to a standing position, striking his chest.) Do I look like a man that can be made to suffer? Frankly? (He rummages in the tote, then his pockets.) What in the hell I done with my smokes?

Vladimir:          Charming afternoon we’re having.

Estragon:          Unforgettable.

Vladimir:          And it’s not over.

Estragon:          Apparently not.

Vladimir:          It’s only beginning.

Estragon:          (lighting another cigarette.) Terrible showing for all concerned.

Vladimir:          Worse than the pantomime.

Estragon:          The circus.

Vladimir:          An amateur music-hall sketch of Pascal’s Pensées played by the Fratellini clowns. 

Estragon:          The circus.

Pozzo:              I just had them sumbitches.

Estragon:          This one’s a scream. He’s lost his cancersticks. (Ashes his cigarette on the floor. To 

Pozzo.) Terrible for your health, those things.

Vladimir:          (sighs.) I don’t think he’s coming.

Estragon:          You want to take a nap? I’ll keep watch, stay on top of developments with the Goodyear Blimp here.

Vladimir:          I don’t want to risk it.

Pozzo:              I totally understand. If’n I was in them shoes of yourn, I’d wait until it was black night afore I gave up. (He looks at the stool.) I’d sure like to sit down again, but I don’t know how without appearing to, you know, be indecisive. My pappy said there was nothing worse than a man what falters at the crucial moment. 

Estragon:          (eyeing the tote.) Could I be of any help?

Pozzo:              If you asked me perhaps.

Estragon:          What?

Pozzo:              If you asked me to sit down.

Lucky sweeps by again.

Estragon:          Would that be of help?

Pozzo:              Reckon so.

Estragon:          Here we go. Be seated, sir, I beg of you.

Pozzo:              No, no, I wouldn’t think of it. (Pause. Aside.) Ask me again.

Estragon:          Come, come, take a seat, I beseech you. You’ll get pneumonia.

Pozzo:              You really think so? 

Vladimir:          (low.) One can hope.

Estragon:          Why it’s absolutely certain.

Pozzo:              No doubt you are right. (He sits down.) Ah, there we go. (Pause.) Thank you. (He looks at his wrist, pauses, shakes his head, pats his pockets, looks up at the skylight.) But I must really be gettin’ along, if’n I’m gon’ stick to my schedule. Prison ain’t gon’ clean itself. 

Vladimir:          Time has stopped.

Pozzo:              Don’t you believe that, inmate, don’t you believe it. Whatever other dumbass thing you like, but not that.

Estragon:          (drops cigarette, stubs out with toe.) Everything seems black to him today.

Pozzo:              ‘Cept for the sky. (He laughs, pleased with this witticism.) Done been four years since you boys saw the sun set. You want me to paint you a picture of it, stir you up some memories? I’m sumptin’ of a conny-sewer for all things in the nat’ral world. (Silence. Estragon is lighting another cigarette. Vladimir is fiddling with Pozzo’s hat, looking at himself in his tiny mirror.) I cain’t refuse you. (Uses inhaler.) A little ‘tention, if’n you please. (Vladimir and Estragon continue their fiddling. Lucky is clearly stoned, pushing the broom slowly, erratically. Pozzo grabs the whip, cracks it.) Damnit, I can do better’n that. (He gets up and cracks the whip more vigorously, finally with success. Lucky is hit by the tip, jumps. At the same time, Vladimir drops the hat, Estragon drops the cigarette, Lucky’s watchcap falls to the ground. Pozzo throws down the whip.) Worn out, this here whip. (He looks at Vladimir and Estragon.) What was I sayin’?

Vladimir:          They should take a year off my sentence for having to put up with this shit. A year per point of IQ lost.

Estragon:          But take the weight off your feet, I implore you, you’ll catch your death.

Pozzo:              True. (He sits down. To Estragon.) What’s your name?

Estragon:          Adam.

Pozzo:              (who hasn’t listened.) Ah yes! The sunset. (He raises his head.) But be a little more attentive, for Pete’s sake, otherwise we’re never gon’ get out of first gear. (He looks up at the skylight.) Look! (All look at the skylight except Lucky, who is slouching again using the broom to keep himself upright. Pozzo jerks the rope.) Will you look at the sky, nigger! (Lucky looks at the skylight.) Good, that’s enough. (They stop looking at the sky.) What is there that’s so darned extraordinary about it? Qua sky. It’s pale and luminous jes’ like any sky at this here hour of the day. (Pause.) In these here latitudes. (Pause.) When the weather is fine. (Lyrical.) An hour ago (he looks at his wrist, frowns) roughly (lyrical) after having done poured forth ever since (he hesitates, prosaic) say ten o’clock in the mornin’ (lyrical) it begun to lose some of its whatyacallit, its effulgence, to grow pale (gesture of the two hands lapsing by stages) pale, ever a little more paler, a little more paler still, until (dramatic pause, ample gesture of the two hands flung apart) pppfff! Finished! It comes to rest down amongst them gooks what they gots in China. But… (hand raised in admonition) but behind this veil of gentleness and peace, night is done chargin’ (vibrantly) and will burst upon us. (Snaps his fingers.) Pop! Like that! (His inspiration leaves him.) Just when we least expect it. (Silence. Gloomily.) That’s jest how it is on this here bitch of an earth.

Long silence.

Estragon:          So long as one knows.

Vladimir:          One can bide one’s time.

Estragon:          No one knows what to expect.

Vladimir:          No further need to worry.

Estragon:          Simply wait.

Vladimir:          We’re certainly used to it. (He picks up Pozzo’s hat, peers inside it, shakes it, puts it on.)

Pozzo:              Whatchoo boys think of my performance there? (Vladimir and Estragon look at him blankly.) Good? Fair? Middling? Poor? Positively Bad?

Vladimir:          (first to understand.) You have the aesthetic sense of Monsieur Sus Scrofa.

Pozzo:              (to Estragon.) And you, boy?

Estragon:          Oh tray bong, tray tray tray bong.

Pozzo:              (fervently.) Bless you, boys, bless you! (Pause.) I have me such a need for

encouragement! (Pause.) I weakened a little towards the end, you didn’t notice?

Vladimir:          Oh, perhaps just a teeny weeny little bit.

Estragon:          I thought it was intentional.

Pozzo:              You see my memory is defective.

Silence.

Estragon:          In the meantime nothing happens.

Pozzo:              You find it tedious?

Estragon:          Somewhat.

Pozzo:              (to Vladimir.) And you, boy?

Vladimir:          I’ve been better entertained.

Silence. Pozzo struggles inwardly.

Pozzo:              Boys… gentlemen… you have been… civil… to me.

Estragon:          Not at all!

Vladimir:          What an idea! They’d rip my convict card right out of my hands.

Pozzo:              Yes, yes, you have good hearts.

Vladimir:          It’s completely inexcusable.

Pozzo:              You have been kind. So that I ask myself is there sumptin’ I could do in my turn for these inma- err, convicts, who are having such a dull, dull time.

Estragon:          A letter of recommendation for our files would be a help.

Vladimir:          Like Huntsville gives a damn what some baseline grunt thinks about anything.

Pozzo:              Is there anything I can do, that’s what I done asked myself, to cheer them up? I’ve shown them ugceptional managerial skills, which will surely be useful one day when they get out. I’ve talked to them about this-n-that. I have explained the twilight, admittedly. But is it enough, that’s what tortures me, is it enough?

Estragon:          Even a brief note to unit classification.

Vladimir:          Did you smoke that second stick or what?

Estragon:          We couldn’t accept any less.

Pozzo:              Is it enough? No doubt. On these matters alone I am lib’ral. It’s my nature. This evening. So much the worse for me. (He jerks the rope. Lucky stumbles back towards him, as he passes he drunkenly swipes Pozzo’s inhaler out of his shirt pocket, tosses it to Estragon, who fiddles with it before lobbing it towards his bunk.) For I shall suffer me somethin’ mighty for this, ain’t no real doubts ‘bout that. Well, boys, whatchoo prefer? Shall we have this here one dance, or sing, or recite, or think, or –

Estragon:          Who?

Pozzo:              Who?! You know how to think allasudden, do you two?

Vladimir:          In circles, mostly.

Estragon:          (looking at Lucky.) What’s he think about?

Pozzo:              Oh, he used to think all sorts of things. Aloud. He even used to think very prettily once, what like some kinda gangsta professor. Now… (he shudders) …now it’s like he jest stuck pontificatin’ on that there racial tomfoolery and injustice nonsensery. Cain’t stop talkin’ ‘bout his case. So much the worse for those of us what know them courts here in Texas is the best on this damn rock. Well, that yer choice?

Estragon:          I’d rather he’d dance, it’d be more fun.

Pozzo:              Not necessarily.

Estragon:          Wouldn’t it, Didi, be more fun?

Vladimir:          I’d prefer to hear him do some (exaggerated drawl) pontificatin’.

Estragon:          Perhaps he could dance a bit first and then think afterwards, if it isn’t too much to ask him.

Vladimir:          (to Pozzo.) Would that be possible?

Pozzo:              By all means, nothin’ simpler. It’s the nat’ral order. (He laughs briefly.)

Vladimir:          Then let him dance.

Silence.

Pozzo:              Do you hear, boy?

Estragon:          He never refuses?

Pozzo:              He refused once. (Silence.) Dance, misery!

Lucky, still obviously stratospherically high, stands up straighter, holds the broom as if he were lightly holding the waist of a woman with his left hand, her imaginary hand with his right. Commences to dance a fluent, elegant tango. Continues for fifteen seconds, crosses the stage, then returns. Stops.

Estragon:          Is that all?

Pozzo:              Encore!

Lucky executes the same movements, stops.

Estragon:          Pooh! I’d do as well myself. (He imitates Lucky, almost falls.) With a little practice.

Pozzo:              He used to know some real dances, like the Electric Slide, the Dixie Jitterbug, the Texas Two-Step. Now it’s all just whatever’n the hell that was. Some kinda immigrant shit. Reason enough to build that wall, in my book.

Estragon:          I think they call it the Scapegoat’s Grace.

Vladimir:          The Fool’s Vengeance.

Pozzo:              Looks to me like someone stuck ona icy lake tryin’ to stay upright.

Vladimir:          (squirming like an aesthete.) There’s something about it…

Lucky makes to return to his sweeping.

Pozzo:              Whoaa!

Lucky stiffens.

Estragon:          Tell us about the time he refused.

Pozzo:              Course, of course. (He fumbles in his pocket.) Wait. (He fumbles.) What ina sam-hell I done with my spray? (He fumbles.) Well now, ain’t that… (He looks up, consternation on his features. Faintly.) I cain’t find my med’cine!

Estragon:          (faintly.) My left lung is very weak. (He coughs feebly. In ringing tones.) But my right lung is very strong! Just like Congress, right, my man?

Pozzo:              (excited.) Damned straight! What was I sayin’? (He ponders.) Wait. (Ponders.) Well now, isn’t that… (He raises his head.) Help me!

Estragon:          Wait!

Vladimir:          Wait!

Pozzo:              Wait!

Vladimir and Estragon take off their hats simultaneously, press their hands to their foreheads, concentrate. Pozzo moves to do the same, realizes he’s no longer in possession of his hat, looks confused, then concentrates.

Estragon:          (triumphantly.) Ah!

Vladimir:          He has it.

Pozzo:              (impatient.) Well?

Estragon:          Why doesn’t he stop sweeping?

Vladimir:          You moron.

Pozzo:              Are you sure?

Vladimir:          Damnit, haven’t you already told us?

Pozzo:              I’ve already told you?

Estragon:          He’s already told us?

Vladimir:          Anyway, he already has stopped.

Estragon:          (glances at Lucky, who is seen stopped at another cell, accepting a light for another 

joint.) So he has. And what of it?

Vladimir:          Since he has stopped sweeping it is impossible that we should have asked why he does not do so.

Pozzo:              Stoutly reasoned, boy!

Estragon:          And why has he stopped?

Pozzo:              Answer us that.

Vladimir:          In order to dance.

Estragon:          True!

Pozzo:              True!

Silence. Vladimir and Estragon put on their hats.

Estragon:          (long pause.) Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful.

Vladimir:          Maybe today is like some kind of existentialist metaphor about the ultimate pointlessness of human existence, our striving towards an attempt at a metaphysics of boredom.

Estragon:          You don’t say.

Vladimir:          Man reduced to hopeless, impotent comic, running his face for hours on end in search of a perpetual postponement for the coming silence of his annihilation.

Estragon:          Really.

Vladimir:          We might be the culmination of all the work of Casiano, Kierkegaard, Heidegger, Fellini, Bardem, Saroyan, Adamov –

Estragon:          I suddenly understand why it is you get beat up so much in population. Dude, you are the goddamned tunnel at the end of the light.

Vladimir:          (Silence.) Fine. (To Pozzo.) Tell him (nods at Lucky) to think.

Pozzo:              Stand back! (Vladimir and Estragon look at Pozzo, then the bars, back to Pozzo. Pozzo jerks the rope. Lucky looks at Pozzo.) Think, boy! (Pause. Lucky begins to dance with the broom.) Stop! (Lucky stops.) Forward! (Lucky advances.) Stop! (Lucky stops.) Think!

Lucky:               On the other hand with regard to –

Pozzo:              Stop! (Lucky stops.) Back! (Lucky moves back.) Stop! (Lucky stops.) Turn! (Lucky turns toward the auditorium.) Think!

During Lucky’s tirade the others react as follows:

1. Vladimir and Estragon all attention, Pozzo dejected and disgusted.
2. Vladimir and Estragon look confused, then alarmed. Pozzo’s suffering increases.
3. Vladimir seems to have figured something out, keeps looking from Lucky to Pozzo. Estragon lights his second joint, inhales, sags against the bars for a moment, then begins cheering Lucky. Pozzo more and more agitated and groaning.
4. Vladimir plays off Pozzo’s disgust and angrily protests, tosses trash at Lucky. Estragon cannot stop laughing insanely. Pozzo jumps up, pulls on the rope. General outcry. Lucky pulls back on the rope, staggers, shouts his text. Pozzo wraps his arms around Lucky to take him down. Lucky continues to struggle as Pozzo tries to pull him to the ground. The pair move backwards until they are pressed against the bars of Vladimir’s cell. Vladimir is seen pilfering Pozzo’s belt of his handcuff key and teargas canister, tries to steal the ring of cell keys but fails to remove them before Lucky and Pozzo topple to the ground. Pozzo’s tote lands near Estragon’s cell, and he swiftly drags it in. He can be seen to be eating a bag of chips during the subsequent minutes. 

Lucky:               Given the existence of general agreement on the concept that the ultimate touchstone of the Fourth Amendment is reasonableness as uttered forth in cases such as Riley v California and of nine honorable Justices quaquaquaqua with long black robes who have both material corporality but also seem to exist outside of time without extension you know what I’m sayin’ who from the heights of divine apathia divine athambia divine aphasia divine asshatery sacrifice appellants regularly on the altars of political ideology with some exceptions for reasons unknown except maybe to drive students of law batshit crazy but time will tell and who suffer not with those niggas who for reasons unknown but time will tell are plunged into torment plunged into the risks identified in Chimel which are present in all custodial arrests if that continues and who can doubt it will that is to say the problem is prevalent when the opportunity to perform a search incident to arrest would be an effective solution which though intermittent is better than nothing but not so fast playa and considering that a conclusion to inspect the contents of an arrestee’s pockets like my mothafucking pockets when I ain’t done shit but walk down the street bein’ black and there wasn’t no substantial additional intrusion as a result of labors left unfinished crowned by the Acacacacademy of Jurisprudential Sophistry of Essy-in-Possy of Testew and Cunard it is established beyond all doubt all other doubt that that which declines to extend Robinson’s categorical rule that as a result of the labors unfinished of Testew and Cunard it is established as hereinafter but not so fast nigga for reasons unknown that as a result of the fallback options offered by the Texas Legislature in Everyman v The Yeehaw Republic it is established beyond all doubt that in view of the labors of Justices Fartov and Belcher left unfinished for reasons unknown of Testew and Cunard left unfinished it is established what many deny that man in Possy of Testew and Cunard that white man in Essy that man in short that man in brief in spite of the strides of alimentation and defecation wastes and pines wastes and pines and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the strides of the leftward turn in the direction of the culture wars these hypocrites continue to destroy people and then return to their lives to their practice of sports such as tennis football running cycling swimming flying floating riding gliding conating camogie skating tennis of all kinds dying flying sports of all sorts autumn winter winter tennis of all kinds hockey of all sorts penicillin and succedanea in a word I resume flying gliding golf over nine and eighteen holes and no one shoots them dead of all sorts for reasons unknown in Feckham Peckham Fulham Clapham namely concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown but time will tell fades away I resume Fulham Clapham in a word the dead the dead the dead so many the dead loss per head since the Gregg being to the tune of X per year where X approximates the malarial killed approximately by and large more or less to the nearest decimal good measure round figures stark naked in the stockinged feet of Connemara in a word for reasons unknown no matter what matter the facts are there and considering what is more much more more grave that in the light of the labors lost of Steinweg and Peterman it appears what is more much more grave that in the light the light the light of the labors lost of Steinweg and Peterman that in the plains in the mountains by the seas by the rivers running water running fire the air is the same and then the earth namely the air and then the earth in the great dark the air and the earth in all there be no motherfucking justice that don’t come inscribed on the edge of a blade the great cold the great dark the air and the earth abode of stone in the great cold alas alas in the year of their Lord two thousand something the air the earth the sea the earth abode of stones in the great deeps the great cold on sea on land and in the air I resume for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis the facts are there but time will tell I resume alas alas on on in short in fire on on abode of stones who can doubt it I resume but not so fast nigga I resume the skull fading fading fading and concurrently simultaneously what is more for reasons unknown in spite of the tennis on on the robes the flames the steel the stones so blue so calm alas alas her eyes were so blue alas alas on on the skull the skull the skull the skull in Connemara in spite of the tennis the labors abandoned left unfinished graver still abode of stones in a word I resume alas alas abandoned unfinished the skull the skull in Connemara in spite of the tennis the skull alas the stones Cunard (melee, final vociferations) tennis… the stones… so calm… Cunard… unfinished…

Pozzo:              (slams Lucky’s head against the cement floor. Quiet. Sits up, pants.) There’s an end to his thinkin’, by God!

Vladimir:          (still eyeing the ring of keys on Pozzo’s belt.) So very close.

Pozzo:              Ain’t nothing close about it. Ain’t going down that road no more. (Pants. Lifts himself up to his knees, finally stands, wobbling.) Whooee. Getting too damned old for this shit. (He kicks Lucky in the side.) Get up, you fucker.

Vladimir:          He even capable of walking after that beating? (Passes gas canister to Estragon.)

Pozzo:              Beatin’? Pfft. Tweren’t no proper beatin’. You ‘member how we used to do it. (To 

Lucky.) Up, goddam you! Get yer black ass up off that floor right now!

Estragon:          (inspects canister.) Perhaps he’s dead.

Vladimir:          You’ve killed him.

Pozzo:              Up, scum! (He jerks on the rope.) Help me!

Estragon:          Sure. Just open my cage and I’ll be right about it. (Wipes residue from the bag of chips on his pants.)

Pozzo:              (pushes Lucky with his feet until he rolls over, within reach of Vladimir’s cell.) Help me raise him up.

Vladimir reaches through the bars, tries to hoist Lucky to his feet. Pozzo lifts from the front. They support him for an instant then let him go. Lucky falls.

Estragon:          (watching in his mirror.) He did that on purpose!

Pozzo:              You must hold him. (Pause.) Come on, come on, raise him up.

Estragon:          (laughing.) Yeah, Didi, get to work. Put some muscle into it. (Removes a candy bar from Pozzo’s tote, unwraps it and begins to chew on it.)

Vladimir:          Fine. Once more.

Estragon:          You too, pig, damn you. Lift!

Vladimir and Pozzo raise Lucky, hold him up.

Pozzo:              Don’t let him go! (Vladimir totters, arms through the bars, wrapped around Lucky’s 

torso, strains visibly.) Don’t move! (Pozzo fetches the broom and brings it towards Lucky.) Hold him tight! (He puts the broom in Lucky’s hand. Lucky drops it immediately.) Don’t let him go! (He puts the broom back in Lucky’s hand. Gradually, at the feel of the wood, Lucky recovers his senses and his fingers finally close around it.) Hold him tight! (As before with the broom.) Now! You can let him go. (Vladimir pulls his arms back into his cell. Lucky totters, reels, sags, but succeeds in remaining on his feet, broom in his left hand. He hangs off it like he is exhausted, looks around blearily and touches his right hand to his forehead. Pozzo steps back, cracks the whip.) Forward! (Lucky totters forward.) Back! (Lucky totters back.) Turn! (Lucky turns.) Done it! He can walk. (Turning to Vladimir and Estragon.) Thank you, boys, and let me… (he fumbles at his belt for a moment) …let me wish you… (fumbles) …wish you… (fumbles, looks around for the tote, sees nothing, scans down the run, all around) …what in the hells I done with my gear? (Fumbles. Screams at the entire section.) Which one of you bastards’ve got my bag? (Silence.) Shit. This gon’ be real bad.

Vladimir:          I didn’t take it. I was helping you get him (points at Lucky) off the ground.

Estragon:          I was right here… giving… you know… moral support.

Pozzo:              You motherfuckers. After all I done for you today.

Estragon:          (to Vladimir.) What was that thing he said about tyrants and slaves? I think I was supposed to remember it well.

Vladimir:          Patere legem, quam ipse tulisti, you bastard.

Pozzo:              (straightens up, attempts at dignity.) I must go.

Vladimir:          Bye.

Estragon:          Don’t let the crash-gate hit your fat ass on the way out.

Pozzo turns, moves away from Lucky towards the wings, paying out the rope as he goes.

Vladimir:          Wrong way, dumbass.

Pozzo:              You bastards’ve got me discombobumulated, is all. (Crack of whip.) On! On!

Estragon:          On!

Lucky moves off.

Pozzo:              Faster! We got to make up some time cuz of these clowns! (Vladimir waves Pozzo’s hat. Estragon waves his watchcap. Estragon laughs, hands a sandwich around to Vladimir.) On!

Estragon:          I ate some chips and a candy bar, but I saved this for you.

Vladimir:          Thanks. And the gas?

Estragon:          I’m about to go hide it and cut his little purse into pieces to be flushed.

Vladimir:          (takes a bite of the sandwich.) If he can’t cover this up, they’ll be around sooner or later.

Estragon:          Yep.

Silence.

Vladimir:          That passed the time.

Estragon:          It would have passed in any case.

Vladimir:          Yes, but not so rapidly.

Pause.

Estragon:          What do we do now?

Vladimir:          I don’t know.

Estragon:          Let’s go to sleep.

Vladimir:          We can’t.

Estragon:          Why not?

Vladimir:          We’re waiting for Warden Godot.

Estragon:          (despairingly.) Ah! (Pause.) Didi? I’ve been thinking.

Vladimir:          Steady now.

Estragon:          If absolute power corrupts absolutely, shouldn’t powerlessness make one pure?

Vladimir:          Apparently not. (Finishes the sandwich, crumples the wrapper and throws it down the run, away from his cell.) That Lucky. He gets slicker every time he works. Like a weasel coated in grease.

Estragon:          Fucker saves all the best dope for himself. You hear that doggerel coming out of his mouth? (Fiddles with the gas canister.) I wonder. (Returns to the desk, picks up a small object, jams it in the tip of the canister’s nozzle.) Yep. Fits perfect. Wish I could be around when they try to use this next time.

Vladimir:          Pozzo gets dumber every time he works down here.

Estragon:          What do you expect? If he could work anywhere else, he would be. (Pause.) Only we don’t change.

Vladimir:          Likely. How could we? Look at our inputs.

Boy:                  (offstage, mumbling. Enters Boy right, peering into each cell intently, whispering to each inmate.) No? Come on, man, one of you gots that gas and that cuff key. Just give ‘em to me and ain’t nothin’ gone happen to no one.

Vladimir:          Who’s that? What’s he saying?

Estragon:          It’s the Warden’s Boy. He’s looking for Pozzo’s stuff.

Vladimir:          Quiet, he’s a fucking rat.

Boy:                 Look, guys, one of you got Pozzo’s gear. Just gone and let me have that and there won’t be no disturbance. Otherwise you know them boys is gone be down here right quick to tear yo’ shit all up.

Vladimir:          Come here, fool.

Boy:                 Yeah?

Vladimir:          Aren’t you the one that told me Warden Godot was going to inspect the Hole today?

Boy:                 May’ve been.

Vladimir:          Well?

Boy:                 Well what?

Estragon:          Why doesn’t he ever stop sweeping?

Vladimir:          No, goddamit.

Estragon cackles hysterically. Vladimir rubs his temples.

Estragon:          Oh, fine. Boy. Where. Is. The. Warden. He. Not. Here.

Boy:                 (shrugs.) He went to the stables instead, look at them new horses they done got from Eastham. He comin’ round here t’morrow. 

Estragon:          That for certain?

Boy:                 You can bet on’t.

Vladimir:          Fuck off, then.

Boy:                 You ain’t gone give me Pozzo’s stuff?

Vladimir:          There’s nothing left to give. God’s honest truth.

Boy:                 Always thought there was a dignity to consequences.

Vladimir:          Yeah, you would.

Estragon:          Okay, you’ve convinced me. Here, you can have this back. (Holds up Pozzo’s empty bag.)

Boy:                 Mighty white of you boys. (Approaches Estragon’s cell.)

Estragon:          (grabs Boy by the shirt, drags him towards the bars. Boy escapes with the bag, runs off yelling stage right. Estragon and Vladimir both laugh.) You forgot this. (Throws gas canister. A cry follows.)

Vladimir:          Almost had him.

Estragon:          Little snitching bastard. I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’d have been the one to set the fire in the first place.

Vladimir:          Might be hell to pay.

Estragon:          Dignity in consequences, I’m told. (Pause.) Let them come. I have a full belly for the first time in months. It will be worth fading an ass-kicking.

Vladimir:          What now?

Estragon:          Punk said the Warden’ll be around tomorrow. All we have to do is wait on here.

Vladimir:          I’m going to bed. It’s cold.

Estragon:          Pity we haven’t got a bit of real rope. Remind me to ask Lucky next time he comes down here. If anyone can get some, it will be him.

Vladimir:          Yes, I’m gone. (He stays at the bars.)

Estragon:          How long have we been together now?

Vladimir:          I don’t know. Almost twenty years, I guess.

Estragon:          First in 17-Building, then G4?

Vladimir:          No, seg for two years after 17, then G4. Then back to high security.

Estragon:          Oh. (Pause.) Do you remember the time I almost made it back to the dorms with half a trash can full of baked chicken?

Vladimir:          Every part of that scam worked except for the last thirty seconds. (Pause.) That would have been a hell of a come-up.

Estragon:          Commissary for months.

Vladimir:          A good six-month vacation from the struggle, if we played it right.

Estragon:          Smoke for weeks.

Vladimir:          That’s all dead and buried.

Estragon:          They gave me six months in the Hole for that. You came down the next day. Why did you do that?

Vladimir:          There’s no good harking back on that. Go lay down. I’m going.

They do not move.

Estragon:          Wait!

Vladimir:          I’m cold!

Estragon:          Wait! (Moves to the opposite side of his cell, looks down the run away from Vladimir.) I sometimes wonder if we wouldn’t have been better off alone, each one for himself. Solidarity comes with a heavy price in here. (Crosses back to the side of his cell adjoining Vladimir’s enclosure, rests his forearms on the bars.) We weren’t made for the same road.

Vladimir:          (without anger.) It’s not certain.

Estragon:          No, nothing is certain.

Vladimir:          (moves to the adjoining wall, rests his arms on the bars.) We can still part, if you think it would be better.

Estragon:          It’s not worthwhile now.

Silence.

Vladimir:           No, it’s not worthwhile now.

Silence.

Estragon:          I guess I’m going to bed, then.

Vladimir:          Yes, let’s go.

They do not move.

                                                                                                                                    Curtain.

Read Act II Here

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Thomas Bartlett Whitaker