HOUSE FULL
Cast (in order of appearance):
Frank D’Costa, a dead man
St Peter
An angel
Immigration clerk angel
Jesus Christ
God
Receptionist Devil
Assistant Devils
Lucifer.
Locations: Heaven and Hell: the entrances only, at both places.
Notes: this play can be put onstage or broadcast as a radio play. Directions are provided on the assumption that it will be staged.
Act One: {If this play is used for radio, there will obviously be no separate acts}
The play opens at the Pearly Gates, which occupy stage centre. The Gates should resemble the rather tacky temporary structures put up at religious functions and political meetings in India – and the tackier, the better. A lot of tinsel is a must. There will be walls on either side of the Gate, with little windows like those of booking offices set in them. These windows are equipped with sliding wooden panels and all but one are shut. Some will have CLOSED or OUT TO LUNCH placards on them. They should bear the look of placards that have remained there for years, undisturbed – dusty and curling at the edges.
It is completely permissible in this play for the actors to turn their backs to the audience. Indeed, as the Pearly Gates will be facing the audience head on, it would be impossible for anyone to approach them without turning their backs to the audience.
The lights come up, slowly, as music plays. The music should be harps with the chiming of bells in the background. As the lights come up, D’COSTA walks through the audience as quietly and unobtrusively as possible and goes up to the stage. He is thin, dark, with curly hair turning grey at the temples, and perhaps wears thick spectacles. He walks with a slight limp and rubs his side from time to time. There is nothing special about his clothes – he can wear whatever he wants to, but he must not look smart or well dressed.
D’COSTA (knocks on Pearly Gates – Sounds of knocking).
[The Pearly Gates crack open a fraction and ST PETER peeps out at D’COSTA. He is a man of advancing years, balding, wearing the conventional white nightgown and white beard, with small wings hanging limply from the back. He comes out quickly and shuts the Pearly Gates behind him.]
D’COSTA (pronounced Indian accent): Good evening, sir.
ST PETER (with a hasty glance at his watch): It’s still morning up here, actually. And who have I the pleasure of addressing?
D’COSTA: I’m D’Costa, sir (pauses, apparently thinking ST PETER will recognise the name.) Frank D’Costa. And you must be St Peter?
ST PETER (doubtfully): D’Costa? And what do you want, then?
D’COSTA (hesitantly): Well, I died, you see. I’m dead. They told me to come here, so as to get in, I mean, St Peter, sir.
ST PETER: Let me get this straight. You’re applying for admission?
D’COSTA (with premature sigh of relief): That’s right.
ST PETER (angrily): And for that you bang on the gates? Who do you think you are? (Collecting himself with an effort) I don’t handle that kind of work any more, except for VIPs. I’ve delegated all that. You’ll have to go through Immigration. Hey, Angel!
ANGEL enters from stage left. She is a plump, moderately pretty woman of middling years, who wears no makeup at all and has short wings hanging from the back of her nightgown.
ANGEL: Yes, Pete?
ST PETER: Take this one over to Immigration, will you? He came banging on the Gates! The very idea! Angie, I told you to keep a watch, didn’t I? And when he came, where were you? Anyway – take him and turn him over to Immigration. I’ll be around if I’m needed.
ANGEL: Sorry, Pete, I was on toilet break. The last time, you’ll remember, the Union demanded that we be given proper breaks for lunch and the loo but management refused. Do you remember the strike?
ST PETER: I remember it; so? Are you threatening a repeat of the strike or something?
ANGEL: Pete – you know I never threaten anything. I just said the word “strike” and you jumped to conclusions. Why, I wonder? Are you in the management planning something? Should we be worried?
ST PETER: Of all the – look, just take this guy over to the Immigration counter, will you?
ANGEL: All right, all right. Keep your hair on. This way, sir, third window on the left. You’re lucky, there’s usually quite a line.
IMMIGRATION CLERK ANGEL (hereafter called CLERK. He is never actually seen, and comes across as an irritable sounding male voice): All right then. Want an entry visa, do you? Let’s see your documentation. (To ANGEL) The damned server’s down again. If I’ve told them once, I’ve told them a hundred times, we need faster broadband speeds. I have to do it all on paper, like we were still living in the bad old days. What next do you think they would want us to use, stone tablets?
ANGEL: That went out with the Ten Commandments, right?
CLERK (darkly): You never know. Someone might go on a nostalgia binge. (To D’COSTA): Where are your documents? Come on, man, you must have been given some documents on your way up here.
D’COSTA: Are these what you want? (Takes something out of his pocket and hands them in.) I didn’t know what to do with them, they never said.
CLERK: What else would you do with them? (Sounds of rustling paper) Cause of death?
D’COSTA: Well, I was…I was kicked to death. By a camel.
(Pause)
CLERK: Do you have any proof of that?
D’COSTA: Would I make up a story like that? Do you think I want to make myself seem even more ridiculous than I am?
CLERK: No, possibly you have a point there, anyway. We’ll waive a death certificate in your case. I’m doing you a favour, actually, we only usually extend this facility for suicide bombers. Do you have a sponsor? Or have you made a reservation?
D’COSTA: Reservation?
CLERK: (Sighs audibly) Well, how do you expect to get in here without a prior reservation? These amateurs! You never booked your place in advance? Well, then, is there anyone here who’d be willing to sponsor you?
D’COSTA: My parents, my sister…
CLERK: Sorry, family members are disallowed. They’re biased, you know. Anyone else?
D’COSTA: How could I say? Can I contact someone inside, a friend or someone I may have known?
CLERK: How do you think you’re going to contact anyone? Do you have their mobile numbers or addresses?
D’COSTA: No, I, er, thought you may be able to seek them out for me.
ANGEL (laughs): Now that’s funny, Clerkie, you must admit. This man hasn’t a clue.
CLERK: Angel, yes, funny, for you. You don’t have to do the work. Let me laugh at you next time there’s a plane crash and you have to sort out two or three hundred people who arrive all at once. Now, you, Mr, ah, D’Costa, you have to understand that there are millions of people here. How do you think we can find the time to seek out someone specifically to vouch for you? We don’t have that kind of time.
D’COSTA: But, if you could allow me in, I’m sure I could find someone I know.
CLERK: I take it back, Angie, this man is funny. Listen, how are we supposed to allow you in? How do we know that if we let you in you won’t just disappear? No, we can’t let you in. You aren’t permitted to contact anyone else now that your application is in the works, anyway. That’s undue influence, and you can get barred for that. For eternity.
D’COSTA: That’s stupid, if you don’t mind me saying so.
CLERK: Them’s the rules. If you don’t like them, take it up with the management.
D’COSTA: How do I do that?
CLERK: You can’t. Talking to the management is restricted to permanent residents, and you aren’t even a visitor. Yet.
D’COSTA: Does this mean you aren’t letting me in?
CLERK: Who told you that? Even if you didn’t book a place, you still have an outside chance. It all depends on your papers. Let’s see what they say. Ah… (flipping of papers audible) life certificate…death certificate… doesn’t mention how you died, but we’ll let that go, as I said. There is an endorsement saying you didn’t apply for prior permission to die, and that’s going to go down against you. Routing Centre arrival certificate? Where is that? Oh, here it is. Is that all you have?
D’COSTA: Here are some others. Is all this really necessary?
CLERK: Necessary? Necessary, he says! Just listen to the man!
ANGEL (patiently): Frank, where do you think Heaven would get to if we didn’t keep records? We’d be as bad as …well, never mind. I was going to say Hell, but I hear they’ve cleaned up their act recently. Let’s say Earth, then. As bad as Earth. (Reproachfully) The poor clerk is only trying to do his job, and you aren’t making it any the easier for him, what with all your objections and interruptions…
D’COSTA: Well, then, sorry, I’ll try and keep quiet.
CLERK: Let’s get on with it. Decontamination and onward transmission certificate…where’s your merit certificate? How do you imagine you’re going to be let in here without a merit certificate? All right, found it.
ANGEL: Actually, Frank, to tell you the truth, there is a problem. Giving you a visa won’t be too easy. We’re overrun with applicants, what with all the religious wars and Iraq and all, and these days there is a quota in place.
D’COSTA: Quota?
CLERK: Look here, you’re from a Third World country.
D’COSTA: So?
CLERK: The residents of Heaven decided by general referendum – the figures were ninety eight point seven per cent in favour, one point three per cent abstentions, not one single vote against, the results are up on the notice board to check if ever you do get in – that people from Third World countries are too busy surviving to have time for spiritual pursuits. So, they are less spiritually inclined. Therefore, as of January first of this year, applicants from Third World countries need an extra five points on their merit score. That’s five points more than everyone else, you understand.
ANGEL: Frank, your merit’s been devalued, you see.
D’COSTA: But at Routing they told me I needed seventy. I have seventy four!
CLERK: You need seventy five now.
D’COSTA: But what can I do?
ANGEL: Those incompetents at Routing, they should have known better than to send you here. Do you have any special skills?
D’COSTA: How do you mean?
ANGEL: We need lawyers here, and press agents. You can’t imagine the way Hell beats us every time at lawsuits and how their publicity department wipes the floor with us. Were you a lawyer or press agent in your, uh, previous life?
CLERK: Or at least were you a web designer or software engineer? Our internet is so bad it’s a scandal. And no one ever visits our website. It’s not sexy enough.
D’COSTA: I am, I mean, I was a teacher in a boys’ school.
CLERK: Ah, well, there you are then. Who needs teachers? The less people know the better, so far as we’re concerned.
D’COSTA: This is preposterous. I shall complain!
CLERK: Go ahead and try. Fat lot of good it will do you.
ANGEL: Frank, haven’t you understood yet how things are done here? Only residents have the right to complain, and even so they are mostly ignored. This is heaven, after all, so what do they have to complain about? (Drops her voice to a whisper) That’s the official attitude, anyway. Some of us do have other views. (Resumes normal tones) You, Frank, don’t even have the right to put your head inside the Pearly Gates. Who’s going to listen to you?
CLERK: Listen, you, stop binding. You’re a borderline case. It’s not totally hopeless yet – the boss might decide to let you in yet. Let me call him. (Pause) Damn it, he’s gone and shut his cell phone off again. Never can get him when you want him. I suppose I’ll have to walk all that way to Paradise House to see him myself. I did want to get some papers signed by him, so it won’t be a total loss. While I’m gone, you fill these forms up in triplicate. Here’s my pen.
ANGEL: Fine. I’ll talk to Pete. Maybe he can do something.
CLERK: You do that. He might. I mean, miracles do happen, right? Well, I’m off.
D’COSTA (curiously): Can’t you fly? I was told all angels could fly.
CLERK: Fly? If I could fly, why in Heaven would I have corns?
(Sound of CLERK’S retreating footsteps. D’COSTA begins to fill in form with a great deal of rustling of paper and scratching of a ballpoint with an almost empty refill. As he does so, oblivious, the following conversation goes on behind him.)
ANGEL: Pete? Pete!
ST PETER (heard offstage): And what is it now? (Emerges through the Pearly Gates, as before shutting them quickly behind him, so that the audience cannot catch a glimpse of what lies inside) He’s still here? You haven’t got rid of him yet?
D’COSTA (muttering, as he fills in the forms): Age at birth…date of death…colour of cause of death…
ANGEL: We may have a problem. He’s a borderline case. Clerk’s taken it up to the boss.
ST PETER: He’ll be rejected, of course. Borderliners always are. Why waste everyone’s time?
ANGEL: We have to at least be seen to try. Otherwise if Hell got wind of it, think of all the propaganda use they could make of it.
ST PETER (wincing visibly): Say no more. What with all the damned journalists and publicists in Hell…
(The ANGEL’S mobile phone rings. When she answers the voice of the CLERK can be heard.)
CLERK: The boss says no. He says there’s no room, certainly not for a borderliner.
ST PETER: Told you so. And what do we do about this poor schnook, anyway?
CLERK: The boss suggests Option Three. He’ll back us up if necessary.
ANGEL: We’ll see. You get back here, Clerkie. Mr D’Costa? Frank?
D’COSTA: Yes? I just have half a page left to fill in.
ST PETER: Never mind that.
ANGEL: We’re sorry, but the boss says we can’t let you come in.
D’COSTA: What do you mean you won’t allow me to come in? You’re sending me away?
ST PETER: That’s right. You see, ever since you humans began breeding like rabbits…I know the boss told you to go forth and multiply, but he didn’t quite mean it like that…you’ve been overloading our facilities.
ANGEL: Especially with all those religious wars where everyone is on the side of good.
CLERK (arriving): We even had to close Purgatory down. The facilities need a major expansion, but we’re already over budget.
ANGEL: You see how bad it is…be reasonable, Frank.
D’COSTA: You’re kicking me out and all you have to say is “Be reasonable”? What are you all, crazy? Jesus Christ!
(Hurrying footsteps heard on the other side of the Pearly Gates)
JESUS (breathlessly): Someone called me. This time I’m sure someone called me.
ST PETER: No, Mr Jesus. Nobody called you, I’m afraid. No, sir.
JESUS (bitterly): Oh well, it would be too much of a change if someone remembered me once in a while, wouldn’t it? (Footsteps walking away dejectedly)
D’COSTA: Well? I’m waiting for some kind of answer.
CLERK: It won’t do you any good, but just for this once you can appeal directly to the boss.
(Lightning flashes. A sound of thunder)
GOD (deep male voice with a loudspeaker effect): We have no vacancy.
D’COSTA: But, Lord…
GOD: There is an overcrowding problem.
D’COSTA: No, but listen…
GOD: Your appeal is rejected. It should never have been made in the first place. The subject is closed, and no further correspondence shall be entertained.
(Lightning flashes. A sound of thunder.)
ANGEL: Well…you heard him.
ST PETER (trying to sound kind, succeeding only in sounding bored): See, Mr D’Costa, it isn’t that we don’t want to let you in. We simply lack the facilities to house any more souls. We’ve been trying to construct new housing, but we haven’t got far yet. Labour troubles, troubles with the supply of construction materials, and then the LSU went and got a court injunction against us. They claimed the new construction was degrading their environment and infringing on their freedom to move around.
D’COSTA: LSU?
ST PETER: That’s the Lost Souls Union. A bunch of…well, forget it.
ANGEL: In the meantime, you have a choice to make.
D’COSTA: What kind of choice?
ST PETER: According to the rules, someone in your circumstances has three options open to him. The first option – admission – is closed to you. So you have to choose between Two and Three.
D’COSTA: Couldn’t you just send me back?
ANGEL: Frank…it’s been a week, and it’s been hot weather.
D’COSTA: I guess not, then. So, what are options two and three, anyway?
CLERK: Option Two is, you join the LSU. You wait in limbo until your chance at admission comes around. Your name will be on our wait-list, and you’ll be informed.
ST PETER: Actually, we aren’t too keen on the LSU. They’ve given us a lot of trouble over the construction. They’re stupid. They can’t see that we can’t start admitting people again until the construction’s all done.
ANGEL (angrily, to ST PETER): Actually it’s a dog-in-the-manger attitude. They want us to live ten to a room the size of a shoebox so they can feel happy about having no rooms at all. I hate the lot of them. (To D’COSTA) I don’t, of course mean the rooms are actually as big as a shoebox and that we live ten to one, that was just a figure of speech…(in a rush) oh, what the Hell, the rooms are the size of shoeboxes and ten’s a conservative number; it’s just the management that have rooms the size of closets and even they have to double up. I’m tired of having someone’s wings in my face every time I try and sleep. I tell you, I’m about ready to quit. It’s just that there are no jobs for angels going these days or I’d have left long ago. And to think people are dying to get in here!
D’COSTA (a bit put out at the outburst): Just assuming I did join your LSU, how long before I could expect to get admitted?
ST PETER: Could be quite a while.
CLERK: Even William the Conqueror hasn’t been admitted yet. Nor has Julius Caesar.
D’COSTA: When do you expect to finish construction?
ST PETER: At the rate your civilisation is using up all resources, never. We’ve hardly anything left to build with, and Hell is threatening to foreclose on its loans.
CLERK: I said we shouldn’t borrow from them, but does anyone listen to me?
ANGEL: Who else would lend us money?
CLERK: Sometimes I think the boss is cuckoo. He makes, you know, rules like the rich shall not enter heaven. So where the Hell do you think all the financial talent ends up?
ST PETER: Oh, I forgot – we’ve instituted a penalty for joining the LSU. It’s two merit units. Too many of those we would let in took one look at the facilities and ran off to join them.
ANGEL: We really, really don’t like the LSU, that’s why we’re recommending Option Three. The boss will back us up if you choose it.
D’COSTA: So what is Option Three, then?
ST PETER: We have this agreement…
ANGEL: A sort of accord…
CLERK: With Hell…
ST PETER: They can accommodate you…
ANGEL: We guarantee it. A penthouse with air conditioning, room service, swimming pool, you name it, they’ve got it…
CLERK: And you can always re-apply for admission here later. If you do, you get a point more in your merit score for choosing Option Three, which in your case brings you up to the minimum.
ST PETER: So think about it.
D’COSTA: What if I choose none of them?
ST PETER: Now that we should not recommend. Don’t even think of it. You haven’t seen the jails up here.
CLERK: Abu Ghraib has nothing on them.
D’COSTA: What happened to the compassionate god we were all told about?
CLERK: Compassion? What’s that?
ANGEL: You’re too old to believe in fairy tales, Frank.
D’COSTA: Let me ask you something, then. How many people before me have taken you up on your Option Three?
CLERK: Nobody. That’s why there’s such an enormous wait list for people to get here.
ANGEL (softly, stroking D’COSTA’S face): We’d really, really love you to choose Option Three, Frank. You’d make the Roll of Honour, and then when you come here someday…I’ll be waiting.
ST PETER: And just imagine living here, it’s worse than the Gaza strip, everyone on top of everyone else. You’d be far more comfortable in Hell. Incidentally, you don’t know how to play a harp, I imagine?
D’COSTA: A harp? Of course not.
CLERK: I think he thought it came naturally. These amateurs!
ANGEL: You wouldn’t like harp lessons then, would you? All day, every day? I really don’t think you would, Frank. It’s all they all do here, play harps, every stinking day. You really wouldn’t like that, Frank.
D’COSTA (capitulates with a deep sigh): All right, I’ll take option three.
ST PETER: Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll call Hell and arrange everything. Angie, give me your mobile. The balance on mine’s exhausted. (Takes the cell) What the Hell was that number again? Six…six…six…that’s it.
ANGEL: I’m ever so proud of you, Frank. (Kissing him) You’re so brave. I’m just waiting till you get here!
(END OF ACT ONE)
Act Two:
The antechamber of Hell. It’s done up like the reception of a swanky office, with a big desk stage right, facing the audience, and a row of deep sofas stage left. The walls are a cheerful shade of red and yellow. The floor is covered with a narrow strip of linoleum. Various portraits hang on the wall: Hitler, Mussolini, Franco, Lyndon B Johnson.
Stage centre, facing the audience, is a large and imposing pair of doors, as solid looking as the Pearly Gates were tacky.
As the curtain rises the RECEPTIONIST DEVIL is discovered behind the desk typing something into her computer. While she could be a different woman in the role, if at all possible it should be the same woman who played the role of the ANGEL in Act One. She must, however, look much prettier and better made up. She is dressed as the typical Executive Secretary except that her skirt and coat are orange-red instead of grey.
At all times during this Act, just as there was harp music in Heaven, there will be the rather soothing background sound of crackling flames in Hell.
The phone on the RECEPTIONIST’S desk rings. She waits for the sixth ring before she picks it up.
RECEPTIONIST (sultry voice): Hell-o, Hell here. How may we be of disservice?
ST PETER (on the phone): Peter here, at the Pearly Gates. Get me Lucifer.
RECEPTIONIST: Oh, Mr P, I’ll have to check if he’s free to receive calls. The Master is a busy devil, you know.
ST PETER: Busy twiddling his hooves? I know as well as you do that you haven’t had any admissions in years. (Loudly) Get him!
RECEPTIONIST (sweetly): I’ll get hold of him, Mr P. Hold the line, please. The Master is overseeing some tortures. (Exits)
(While the RECEPTIONIST gets LUCIFER a chant can be heard over the crackling of the flames. At first the words are inaudible but get clearer till they are loud and clear.)
ASSISTANT DEVILS: Bad breath! Bad breath! Bad breath!
(LUCIFER enters the room behind the RECEPTIONIST DEVIL. He is a tall, handsome man with a short pointed beard and wears suit, tie, and carries a briefcase. His clothes are all in shades of brown or reddish.)
LUCIFER (BBC accent): Yes, Peter?
ST PETER: What on earth is that noise?
LUCIFER: Does it bother you? We’re just torturing someone. (Chant dies slowly down till it stops.)
ST PETER: That’s the way you torture someone?
LUCIFER: What else would you have us do, crush them between planks or threaten them with dogs or burn them or something like that? We leave those barbarities to you Heavenly lot. Here we’re more subtle. For example, this particular soul will spend eternity not knowing if he has bad breath or not.
ST PETER: And does he?
LUCIFER: Peter, Peter. He’s dead. What kind of breath would he have?
ST PETER: Anyway, that’s not what I’m calling about. We have someone for you.
LUCIFER (suspiciously): What kind of someone would that be?
ST PETER: An applicant who was waitlisted and chose Option Three.
LUCIFER (sitting bolt upright): Really? Someone chose that?
ST PETER: Yes, wonders will never cease. You know of course what sort of facilities he’ll expect. We’re counting on you not to let us down.
ANGEL‘S VOICE (heard faintly in background): The elevator’s right over here, Frank.
LUCIFER: I assume, of course, that you lot are going to pay for it?
ST PETER (reluctantly): I suppose we have to.
LUCIFER: That’s what the agreement said. Now of course you know that you’re already seven loan repayments in arrears. Five more and we’re foreclosing. To tell you the truth my accountants are already pressing me to foreclose. They say I can expect to end up owning half of Heaven, but who wants to own an overcrowded wasteland anyway? So what I’m asking is, are you lot able to pay for it?
ST PETER: Depends on how much you’re charging.
LUCIFER: What facilities do you want for him? We can offer the Emperor’s Suite for twenty thousand a day. It’s got four rooms, TV with in house cable, a gym, sauna, Jacuzzi in the bathroom, king size double bed, free champagne laid on daily.
ST PETER: No, that’s too costly I think. Anything lower?
LUCIFER: How does the King’s Suite sound, then? Three rooms, sauna, gym, bed, cable, in built bar. No Jacuzzi though. Just fifteen thousand a day.
ST PETER: Still too much. What else?
LUCIFER: Let me see. (Bends towards computer terminal on RECEPTIONIST’S desk and hits some keys.) The Presidential Suite. Ten thousand a day. Three rooms, gym, cable, bed. Will that do?
ST PETER: To be honest, that’s still too costly, and besides, this specimen’s really not worth that much trouble. Do you have just one room with a bath attached? That should do him fine.
LUCIFER: You know something, Peter? You’re a real cheapskate. You should be ashamed of yourself.
ST PETER: I didn’t call you to be abused. Now what do you have for me?
LUCIFER: Just for being such a cheapskate, Peter, old man, I’m going to put your man in the Emperor’s Suite. I’ll even give him the key to the executive washroom. And I’m not going to charge you anything for it.
ST PETER: That sounds so uncommonly good of you, Lucifer, that I can’t help being suspicious. What’s the catch?
LUCIFER: Oh, you’ll find that out in five months. (Slams phone down) Come here, boys and girls!
(Enter various assistant devils. Of both sexes, and of generally skimpy attire, they are all attractive.)
LUCIFER: Roll out the red carpet, boys and girls, and get the cameras ready. We’re getting a volunteer admission! And a couple of you go get the Emperor’s Suite ready. It’s never been used before, so it could use some dusting and sprucing up. Now where’s the editor of Hellhound? Get a press release ready, and as for the rest of you…
(ASSISTANT DEVILS roll out a clean red carpet over the linoleum. Over the sounds of LUCIFER continuing to instruct them, we hear the whine of a descending elevator. Enter D’COSTA, stage right, looking very apprehensive)
D’COSTA: Hello, I’m …
LUCIFER (bowing low): Good moaning, Your Excellency! Welcome!
ASSISTANT DEVILS: Welcome, Excellency! Welcome!
(CURTAIN)
