[A noticeably anxious BARRY BONDS sits in an office adjacent to a courthouse. He is facing STEVE, a professional-looking gentleman who appears to be in his thirties. STEVE sits at his desk, poring through the contents of a folder.]
STEVE: ...your date of expiration was December 30, 2029. Is that correct?
BONDS. Yes, sir. I was 65.
STEVE. Ah, we've got a math whiz here, eh?
BONDS. Heh. Sorry.
STEVE. You shouldn't be nervous. There's really nothing to be worried about. We're going to do everything we can to help you out here. This firm has built its reputation on working as hard as we can to secure a pleasant future for anyone who walks in that door.
Now, was this? ...Okay. "Natural causes" on your death certificate, but there are some notes in here. Your ticker stopped because of some nonessential medications you were taking. Narcotics, right?
BONDS. Yeah. Performance enhancers. I quit when I was about 45, but apparently the damage was already done.
STEVE. Mmkay. I'll be frank with you, that probably isn't going to help you. You're going to need all the help you can get.
BONDS. I did accept Jesus into my heart as my personal Lord and Savior.
STEVE. Well, that was at a Jars of Clay concert. In my experience, Jars of Clay is not recognized by our court system as a valid conduit for personal salvation.
BONDS. What? Why not?
STEVE. Woof! They're terrible. Just awful.
Did you ever cry out in desparation to the Heavens, pray to an uppercase or lowercase God? Drink a pint of La Chouffe? I'm looking for something we can use.
BONDS. I can't say that I did.
STEVE. Mm. [twirls pen between fingers]
I'll be right back. I'm going through that door; it connects to the courtroom. I've built a pretty solid relationship with the judge, so don't worry, okay?
BONDS. Kind of hard not to.
STEVE. Relax! Worrying will not help you out. Now, this court is known for working quickly and I have a couple of other clients. If the judge sentences you to take the choo-choo down south, the warrant officers may come to get you before I get back. If that's the case, I'd like to say now that it's been a pleasure representing you.
[STEVE offers a firm handshake, which BONDS weakly accepts.]
BONDS. Hell, right? They'd take me to Hell.
STEVE. Yyyesss. That is correct.
BONDS. What, um...what is Hell like?
STEVE. Eternal hunger, thirst, and flame. A one-song playlist consisting of "December" by Collective Soul. Three showings a day of "Ghost World". Longing, dread, and regret. That's where we don't want you. You're our client, which means that if you end up there, you really deserve it. [chuckles, gives a firm slap on the back] Eh?
[Exeunt STEVE.]
[BONDS leans forward, plants his head in his hands, and sighs.]
[Stage lights dim to darkness for a moment, then fade back in.]
[Enter STEVE.]
STEVE. Hey buddy. We're going to be able to help you out. I wrangled a little, and besides a couple of provisions, you're off the hook. You'd better thank God that the Salvation Amnesty Act was passed last month.
BONDS. Oh, Lord. Thank God. Haha!
STEVE. [grins] What'd I say? Huh? Huh?
BONDS. [nodding with breaking laughter] Yeah. Yeah...you said it!
STEVE. Now I have another appointment in five, so you'll have to excuse me for being a little brief about all this. The judge attached two provisions. First, though I was able to swing you a new head of hair, you will not receive a new body, as the records indicate you already received one circa 1997.
BONDS. Fair enough.
STEVE. The other, which you'll be expected to fulfill immediately, is to visit and offer a personal apology to every other person in Heaven who has held the career home run record at some point. There are about ten of these fellows, by our records. A provision upon a provision, I know that's a mouthful, is that whenever Alex Rodriguez and Jarrod Saltalamacchia get here, they will have the option to request a personal apology as well. Capeesh?
BONDS. Hank Aaron? Babe Ruth? All those guys? I don't know if I'm so comfortable with this. I've been...well, I've been a jerk.
STEVE. My name's Barry Bonds! I'm in Hell! My flesh burns! Oh awesome, Thora Birch is being mopey! I'm still bald! Great! Awesome!
BONDS. Hey, I didn't say no. When is this happening?
STEVE. Right now, buddy! Make your way through that door. My associate will take you to the Lake. Real nice spot, like in a painting. Each of your new pals are sitting on the shore.
BONDS. What? They're already there?
STEVE. Yep...fourth dimension? Have you figured that out yet?
BONDS. What?
STEVE. Ohhh this is good. All right. See my finger? See it?
[STEVE pokes his index finger into the air. It disappears in a small burst of blue electric spark and simultaneously reappears, floating on the other side of the room.]
Woop!
BONDS. Holy shit.
STEVE. Magic! I know! Now go on, make your penance. Have a great time in Heaven, and God bless.
[Enter BONDS.]
[The scene is picturesque. The lake is enormous, its waters calm, the air without wind. Dashes of willow trees hang over the shoreline. A man sits at the end of a dock. BONDS makes his way over.]
BONDS. Hey.
HENRY AARON. What do you want?
BONDS. I'm supposed to apologize to you.
AARON. Why do you want to apologize? You don't have to do that.
BONDS. Well--
AARON. That was a joke. Of course you have to apologize.
BONDS. Sorry.
AARON. That was for not getting my joke. You still owe me a "sorry."
BONDS. Sorry.
AARON. Fuck you.
BONDS. Look, I don't like this any more than you do. Let's just talk it over.
AARON. I am making a comment by not making a comment.
BONDS. That was a comment.
AARON. No it wasn't.
BONDS. That was another comment.
AARON. Stop it!
[A short pause.]
AARON. That was a directive.
BONDS. And there's another comment.
AARON. Okay, seriously. Screw off.
BONDS. You're in Heaven. You're in Heaven and you haven't learned forgiveness. Why did they let you in here?
AARON. It's not they, it's He. God let me in. It's not like God and Allah and Yahweh and The Force formed some superhero society. God just goes by different names. And now...
[yelling] Friends! Over here!
[to BONDS] now, you are pissing on my picnic.
[Two twentysomething MEN in 70s-era attire approach BONDS menacingly.]
AARON. Feeling lucky, asshole? Want to meet my left and right fists?
BONDS. All right. I'll go bother someone else.
[Exeunt BONDS.]
MEN. WE ARE TIRED OF DOING YOUR DIRTY WORK, HENRY.
MEN. WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO GIVE US THE HUG YOU PROMISED? ALL WE WANT IS TO HUG YOU. WE HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR OVER FIFTY YEARS.
AARON. Go get me some beer, and then we'll talk about a hug.
MEN. LIES. MORE AND MORE LIES. AND YET, WE CANNOT REFUSE YOU.
[Enter BONDS.]
[BABE RUTH is sitting on the shoreline, wearing a bib.]
BONDS. Mr. Ruth. I'm sorry that I broke your record, which was previously broken by someone else.
RUTH. Are you going to finish that? [gestures]
BONDS. Finish what? I don't have any food. Oh wait, are you...No, you cannot eat my hand.
RUTH. Keep talking. [holds voice recorder aloft]
BONDS. Um. Okay. Well, as part of a plea deal that will land me a permanent spot here in Heaven, I have to go around and apologize to all you guys for breaking the record unfairly. And I'm afraid that I'm doing it for the wrong reasons. I'm just going through the motions here. I'm not really sorry, I'm just telling you that. I cheated my way into superstardom on Earth, and boom, now it looks like I'll be able to parlay it into an eternal future in Heaven. Pretty sweet deal.
RUTH. Perfect. [presses 'stop' button, swallows recorder whole] The vowels. Ohhh...the vowels.
BONDS. Do you even care?
RUTH. No. Not really. It's nice of you to apologize, and all, but I'm finished with baseball. I wasn't just good at it, I mastered it. I pitched, I hit, I did everything. It's like re-playing the wooden peg-board games at the Cracker Barrel. You've beaten it. Move on.
BONDS. So what do you do now?
RUTH. [sigh] I eat. We don't have to eat here. Our organs have been removed and replaced with packing foam. If I swallow something, it disappears and drops in a landfill near Atlanta, Georgia.
BONDS. You're kidding.
RUTH. Nope. Where do you think Roswell came from?
BONDS. Touche.
RUTH. My point is, it's all empty here. Our lives are cup-and-ball games. There is only one mortal lifetime's worth of worthwhile experience. I'm talking eighty, ninety years. Music, contemplation, sex, food, games. Stimulation of any kind. And what do you do once it's done? Die? Ohhh no. You keep on recycling things you've experienced before, trying to chase that high of experiencing something new that you will never get back.
You want my advice, kid? Don't come here. There's nothing left to do. God was cruel to make us, and in keeping us alive, he's crueler still. But don't mind me. If you're so intent on destroying yourself, soldier on.
BONDS. Where else would I go? Hell?
RUTH. Maybe. Collective Soul's pretty good.
BONDS. Ugh. I'm disappointed in you.
RUTH. [sticks out tongue]
BONDS. Are you trying to taste my disappointment?
RUTH. Yes...mm. Do you have any cilantro handy?
BONDS. Bye.
[Enter BONDS.]
[ROGER CONNOR stands on the dock, peering through a telescope.]
BONDS. Um. What are you looking at?
CONNOR. [without averting gaze from telescope] Madrid.
BONDS. But you're looking up. Isn't Earth below us?
CONNOR. No, Heaven rotates on an axis as well. If you're patient, Earth will usually come into view this time of day. [sigh] Poor Julian. [swings around telescope] Take a look. His mother . She has cancer. She's not going to make it.
BONDS. There isn't anything we can do?
CONNOR. No. But would you want to? I wouldn't. Now, Babe always says that the mortal life is worth preserving at any cost. It's there, he'll tell you, that you have the real freedom -- freedom from the knowledge that before long, you will be bored and miserable.
[looks up from telescope]
But if I may take a quote out of context: "go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider its ways and be wise." What if you were born on Earth an insect? A trivial little worker ant who foraged for food for six months and then died? No higher thought process. No capacity for wonder. A small cog in the machinery of an enormous colony that ultimately amounts to pestilence. Now, there is an untold number of these ants. Despite their size, they make up 23% of the Earth's animal biomass. So the odds of you being born a human versus an ant are, what, one in a hundred thousand? Maybe less? You were born a human being, my friend, in the image of God. You won the damned lottery, pal. You were chosen to experience these things. And despite what anyone may tell you, you can never stop learning. You can never stop getting better. That's the beauty of it. We'll never be as good as God, but that doesn't mean we can't try. Yearning for what we cannot have is what keeps us alive.
BONDS. I'm sorry I cheated on baseball.
CONNOR. Yep.
[BONDS gazes out into the massive Lake. In the distance, he notices four figures moving about in a small boat. He spots a paddleboat on the shore and begins to row offshore. As he approaches the scene, it becomes clear that four men are fighting within a small canoe.]
HARRY STOVEY. This canoe is mine! There is but room for one!
JIM O'ROURKE. Gentlemen, this fighting is for the birds! Cannot we engage in a simple game of sorts to settle our differences?
DAN BROUTHER. Indeed! I propose a game of "shove you out of the boat!"
CHARLEY JONES. And here we've come to stumble upon the grand human dilemma in a nutshell! Clever show, teddies! [twirls moustache]
BONDS. What's going on? What are you all doing?
STOVEY. Suckling the wart on your mother's buttock!
BROUTHER. Yes! I've a mind to engage in the "have-sex" with your sister!
JONES. Leave us be!
O'ROURKE. Nigger!
BONDS. Do you want to say that again? Say it again, asshole.
BROUTHER. Dear friend, please forgive my foeish crew-mate's lunacy!
BONDS. [sigh] Whatever. What are you fighting about?
BROUTHER. We boarded this ship merely for the cause of a fishing expedition, but there are no fish! And then this moustachioed jack-ass to the right of me stated that time does not exist, and that each passing glimpse is merely a freeze-frame; our thoughts, actions and passions in suspension!
STOVEY. O'Rourke then argued that outside of people and places he has personally witnessed or experienced, the world does not exist! That the world is not a globe, but a narrow series of roads and rails that lead to buildings!
JONES. Forgive us, new friend. We have been at each other's wind-pipes since the birth of Father Time! Why, we spent a decade wresting the home run crown back and forth from one another!
BONDS. Why don't you accept each other's differences? If you keep fighting, you'll all fall overboard.
STOVEY. Never!
[The shoving and limp-wristed slapping continues, and the small canoe rocks tenuously back and forth, bound to capsize any moment.]
JONES. For you see, new friend, it is this very chaos that serindipitously keeps our fine ship in harmony! If even one of us ceased to wage war, the balance would be lost! It is up to us, we proud moustachioed captains of industry, to ensure that this island-nation retains its balance of power!
BONDS. Not to change the subject, but I came to apologize for cheating my way to the home run record. So...I'm sorry.
BROUTHER. A colored holds our record? Impossible!!!
O'ROURKE. NIGGARRRRR
JONES. UNITE, brothers, against the BLACK MENACE!
[The four men, suddenly enveloped in uncontrollable racist fervor, flail their limbs about wildly, desperately grasping for BONDS. The men fall out, and the boat capsizes.]
BONDS. Welp! See you later.
[Exeunt BONDS.]
STOVEY. We are wet. We are soaking, we Captains of Industry! We were once a sturdy nation-ship, but have been diced down to a disjointed rabble of one-man island!
O'ROURKE. The Isle of O'Rourke decrees a law forbidding gay marriage!
[BONDS paddles back to shore, where he sees a man fishing from the end of his dock.]
PIKE. Come here, friend. Sit here on the dock with me for a bit.
BONDS. All right.
PIKE. I like to fish. It's fun to do.
BONDS. Haha, I'm more of a home run hitter myself.
PIKE. You have hit home runs?
BONDS. Do you not know who I am?
PIKE. I'm sorry, I do not. I rarely leave this dock. Nor do I ever feel the need.
[offers a smile]
Do you know what it feels like to know you contributed to your fellow man?
BONDS. I...you know, I'm not sure if I do.
PIKE. The knowledge that I have satisfies me. It is my bread and water. I need only to reflect on this knowledge, and fish these waters all day, to make myself happy. I was the first ever home run champion. I hit four home runs in 1871. Can you believe that? Four!
BONDS. Pretty good, man.
PIKE. Thanks. And without an egotistical bone in my body, I can rightly say that I have contributed the home run. More than I could have ever asked for. Because the home run is pure. Politicians cheat, the value of a dollar rises and falls. But the home run can never be damaged or destroyed. It is up to us to ensure that it always remains that way.
BONDS. [hangs head]
[A disspirited BONDS drags his feet to the entrance to Hell. ]
GOD. Stop.
BONDS. I was beginning to wonder whether you actually lived here.
GOD. If I had held your hand, you would have learned nothing. Why would you ever leave this place for Hell? You fulfilled your end of the bargain. You apologized to all other past record holders.
BONDS. The reason? The honest truth? I don't deserve Heaven. I have come to love Heaven this afternoon, and feel as though I could learn forever, but there are men better than me who never had the chances I did to make it here.
GOD. Have you forgotten who is in charge of Heaven? I can lower its standards however I would like!
BONDS. [smiles]
GOD. I'll tell you a secret, Barry. I did not make good people. Only bad people, and less bad people. Don't ever let me catch you hanging your head like that again.
[BONDS turns his steps away from Hell and is welcomed back to Heaven. Perhaps this time he will get it right.]