(A Screenplay)
INT. Cafeteria—Day
Red plastic trays glide down the food bar. We watch from ABOVE as a pair of hands, shrink-wrapped in poly gloves and glowing with an ethereal light, pass steaming plates of today’s special under the sneeze guard. Mashed potatoes and mystery meat. We hear the familiar, convivial din of CLINKING SILVERWARE and DISTANT CONVERSATION.
Cut To:
A long table, sparse and utilitarian, with nine seats on each side—all empty, save one.
JOB, midthirties, sits alone at the center. He stares blankly at his food, shoulders slumped. His oxford and tweed fit the profile of a professor—humanities, judging by the absence of a tie—but his matted hair and three-day growth could get him mistaken for a hungover student. On the wall behind him, a smattering of fliers advertise sorority balls, lectures, and cheap apartments. An inspirational poster features a calico kitten hanging precariously from a tree limb. “Hang in there!” it says.
Coeds pass in front of the table, lost in chatter. A WOMAN with an armful of papers to grade walks briskly toward the table, heels assaulting the floor, but the minute she spots Job, she freezes, then does an about-face to clop, clop, clop away. Job doesn’t notice.
More coeds pass by, until finally ELI approaches the table with a tray in his hands and sits down cautiously next to Job. They are close in age, but Eli’s beard is obviously intentional, the sort of extracurricular activity he brags about in his faculty bio, along with his interest in foreign films and craft beer. Eli takes Job in. He starts to speak, then thinks better of it, poking at his mystery meat instead.
The two sit in silence until BILL arrives with a paper bag lunch and takes the seat on the other side of Job. Bill, late sixties, has the wizened air of a longtime professor who has survived his fair share of inept administrations. He nods a greeting to Eli, who returns it, then to Job, who does not. He pulls out a peanut butter sandwich and takes a bite, content with the quiet.
FATHER Z is the last to arrive, having walked from the divinity school. The fiftysomething wears a collar under his blazer and carries a plastic container of mixed greens and a plastic fork. Before sitting, he rests his hand for a moment on Job’s shoulder, as if to offer a prayer. No reaction from Job. Father Z takes the seat next to Bill so the four colleagues form a single outward-facing row, a sad little tableau. No one sits across from them.
Finally, the silence becomes too much for Eli. He pulls a greeting card from his jacket. It says “With Sympathy” on the front. No envelope.
Eli
We got this for you, man. It’s not much, I know, but under the circumstances, we just . . . we wanted to do something.
Job wakes from his stupor, takes the card, and opens it.
Job
(reading the card, deadpan)
Remember, God will never give you more than you can handle.
He puts the card on the table and falls back into a daze. Eli seems satisfied, but Bill makes a face.
Eli
(to Bill)
What? What’s wrong with the card?
Bill
It’s a tad cliché, don’t you think? “God will never give you more than you can handle”? What’s that even mean?
Eli
It’s just a card, Bill. It’s not a theological statement.
Bill
Everything’s a theological statement. You of all people should know that.
Bill looks to Father Z for support, but Father Z keeps his eyes on his salad.
Eli considers Bill’s challenge for a moment. He has to lean over Job to resume the conversation with his colleagues.
Eli
(lowering voice)
Look, this obviously happened for a reason. We know God is in control and that there is some divine purpose at work here. We don’t need to spell that out for Job; he gets it. I figured a few words of comfort would encourage him to consider what he might learn from this time of discipline. Blessed is the one whom God corrects, so do not despise the discipline of the Almighty. For he wounds, but he also binds up; he injures, but his hands also heal.
Bill
Well, that would have been a much better way to put it.
The friends fall silent for a moment, all of them eating except for Job. We hear only the CLINK of flatware on plates and the distant HUM of less-awkward conversations, until Bill can no longer keep his opinion to himself. He puts down his sandwich.
Bill
Really, this should serve as a reminder that we’re all just one sin away from similar judgment. If anything, we ought to be urging Job to repent so God will show mercy.
(to Job)
You know, if you seek God earnestly and plead with the Almighty, if you are pure and upright, even now he will rouse himself on your behalf.
Job doesn’t respond. Bill returns to his sandwich, glad he got that off his chest.
Eli
(to Bill)
Of what should Job repent? Specific sins?
Bill
Aren’t all sins specific, Eli?
Eli
Well, sure. I guess I’m asking if you think Job did something definitive to bring this on or if it’s more, like, a result of God’s wrath on his general sinful state. You said it could happen to any of us . . .
Bill
Yeah, but it didn’t happen to any of us. It happened to Job.
Eli
Right, but why?
Bill
Pride. Greed. Sloth.
Eli
I’ve not seen Job exhibit any of those qualities. I mean, we all know him to be a man of—
Bill
Porn.
Eli
Porn? Oh good grief, Bill. It always comes back to porn with you. You really think God’s so enraged Job got a peek at some boobs online, he sends a rainstorm and a drunk driver to the very road where . . .
An excruciating pause.
Eli
(to Job)
Oh, God. I’m sorry, dude. I’m so sorry.
Bill
(matter-of-fact)
God rewards the righteous and punishes evildoers. The Writings are clear on that. Does God pervert justice? Does the Almighty pervert what is right? Certainly not. Whatever the sin, it was severe enough to warrant correction. We have to trust that God is just.
Eli knows he should let it go, but he just can’t let Bill have the final word.
Eli
I agree, Bill. But it doesn’t have to be direct cause and effect. I think it’s entirely possible this was a result of God’s general anger toward sin, like with the earthquake a few weeks ago or the famine over in Sudan, not necessarily a direct effect of Job’s porn addiction.
Father Z
Job has a porn addiction?
Eli
According to Bill, everyone has a porn addiction.
Bill
Yep. Because of feminism.
Eli
(to Bill)
All I’m saying is, I think it’s entirely possible God did this to discipline Job’s sins in general, not one sin in particular, which should sober us all. Hardship does not spring from the soil, nor does trouble sprout from the ground. Yet man is born to trouble as surely as sparks fly upward.
Father Z
I don’t think Job’s convinced he’s guilty of anything.
At this, everyone at the table turns to Father Z, and then to Job. Job looks back at Father Z, as though suddenly seeing a stranger or trying to read a sign in a different language.
Job
What?
Father Z
Do you think you are blameless, Job?
Job
I . . . I don’t know . . . Blameless? . . . I . . .
Father Z
Do you recognize this as an opportunity for repentance?
Job struggles, then finally answers, tentatively.
Job
No. Not really.
Father Z
Well, I’m sorry to hear that.
Job
I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong, Father.
Father Z
(in preacher mode)
Oh, how I wish that God would speak, that he would open his lips against you and disclose to you the secrets of wisdom! He has already overlooked so much of your sin, Job; how can you claim to be blameless? If God confines you in prison and convenes a court, who can oppose him? You must repent, brother, and turn your heart to him. Put away your sins, and God will work this out for good.
He pauses for dramatic effect.
Father Z
. . . Yes, even this can be redeemed for good.
The group absorbs Father Z’s sermon. Job puts his head in his hands. He wears a wedding ring.
Bill, not to be outdone, tries one more point.
Bill
I think we should consider that maybe this isn’t just about Job’s sins, but the sins of the ones actually in the accident.
At this, Job lifts his head from his hands to look at Bill, and for the first time we catch a glimmer of emotion—utter anguish.
Suddenly, everything stops. Complete silence. All the background clamor ceases, as if someone has hit a mute button on the cafeteria. The fluorescent lights above the table throb, glowing brighter and brighter, until nearly everything is blown out. The professors, startled, squint and shield their eyes.
The silhouette of a CAFETERIA LADY moves imposingly into the frame. She wears a hairnet and apron. Her hands, shrink-wrapped in poly gloves, rest on her hips.
Cafeteria Lady
Enough! Enough with this!
She speaks with a thick Latin accent.
Cafeteria Lady
Stop lying about me, you fools. You think because you’ve got a bunch of fancy theology degrees, you can divine what I’m up to? Who keeps the earth spinning in her orbit and knows every dimension of the cosmos, huh? Who formed galaxies out of dark matter and brought life out of the sea? Who knows every strand of DNA in every plant and every animal and every person in the world? And who is acquainted with every human sorrow, from the tears of a child to the groans of slaves? Who can fathom the depths of the ocean? Who can start or stop the rain? Who knows, intimately, the contents of every human heart?
She waits.
Cafeteria Lady
That’s right. NOT. YOU. So lay off my servant Job. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He is blameless and upright, a man of kindness and integrity, which is more than I can say for the three of you.
Stunned, the professors sit with mouths agape until Bill attempts to speak. He moves his mouth, but no sound comes out. Same with Eli and Father Z. The three enter into a frantic, soundless “conversation” as Job rises to his feet, tears streaming down his face.
Cafeteria Lady
C’mon, Job. I know you’ve got some things to get off your chest.
She walks out of frame. Job follows with reckless abandon, nearly falling over his chair to get to her.
The lights return to normal. The CAFETERIA SOUNDS resume. But the three professors continue arguing without voices, employing dramatic gestures to compensate.
At the center of it all sits an empty chair.
Fade to Black