Not possible. Einstein is dead.
Not an impossibility but an improbability, for sure. That’s the problem with Quantum Theory. Improbabilities keep cropping up.
(examines his hands) But I must admit, I’m getting won over to it at last.
Not only a great scientist but a great humanitarian, as well. We worked together on many campaigns, starting with the Spanish Civil War.
Spanish Civil War?
Actually long before that, Paul. I was proud to be a co-signer with you of several petitions concerning the Scottsboro Boys.
The who boys? Sounds like a rap group.
Or a bluegrass group.
Nigger rapists, Commie dupes.
Watch your mouth! Innocent victims of Southern racism, sentenced to death for a crime they never committed.
Like Mumia Abu Jamal.
That’s Philadelphia racism.
Same thing.
Correct, young man! Up south or down south, same thing, I learned that personally. At any rate, Dr. Einstein, who you see before you, in the flesh—I think—was not only a great scientist but a great humanitarian. Perhaps that’s the same thing as well!
Oh, no, Paul. You flatter me and my colleagues. But it’s true, I took part in that and many campaigns. I could do no less.
I still say they might be spies.
Better check them out. Better check out all of your people. You never know.
Don’t listen to him. Security is a real issue for political activists, but divisive rumors are often fomented by the FBI in order to…
ROBESON trails off when he sees everyone turning to look toward the house. CLAIRE is running down the stairs, waving a tee shirt.
I have evidence! We can find out if he’s telling the truth.
She hands Einstein the tee shirt, and he obligingly pulls it on over his sweater. It has a picture of Albert Einstein, and under it, the formula, E=MC2. Apparently it’s all the evidence these young people need.
Well, I’ll be damned. It is Albert Einstein! And I knew it all along.
How did you do it? You traveled through Time!
(looking at his watch again, then putting it away) That was the easy part. It was doing it while dead that presented the more interesting problem. But I can assure you, it won’t be occurring again. It’s strictly a singularity.
So who does that make you, Jackie Robinson?
I beg your pardon! Do we all look that much alike to you?
No, no, this man I had the pleasure of bringing here with me is Paul Robeson, the great Negro singer and actor—and activist.
A man who stood up for justice, not only for his own people, but for all the people in the world.
In other words, a Red. A card-carrying Communist.
Prove it, you two-bit gumshoe! (a beat) Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
The young people all laugh at this Seinfeld line. ROBESON and EINSTEIN wonder why, but let it pass.
It’s true! I thought he looked familiar. My grandmother had his picture on her wall, right next to Martin Luther King.
Another Communist.
You young people know what a Communist is, don’t you? It’s anyone who demands equal rights for Negroes, especially here in the United States.
Knee-grows?
Paul Robeson. I think I read about you in school. But aren’t you dead too?
Only a rumor, my dear. (laughs) Unfortunately, one of the more accurate ones.
My granny said you were a giant. I always thought you would be bigger.
I always thought I was bigger too, son. Still do, I guess.
You still are, Paul. And were. The biggest, bravest man I ever met. Made me proud to be a human being, when so many others—(indicates HOOVER, who sulks) were busy trying to make us ashamed —were busy trying to make us ashamed of our common humanity.
So who’s he? Why’s he here?
Good question!
Common is right!
A traffic cop with delusions of grandeur. Wanted to be the Grand Inquisitor.
Not a colored entertainer, or a Jewish egghead, like these two. I built the world’s greatest police force, the pride of America. The FBI.
The FBI? That clown show? You mean the guys who couldn’t catch the Atlanta bomber when he was hiding in his own home town?
Oh, come on, Malcolm, be fair. It was a town of 1,600. That’s a lot of people!
(getting into it, ‘hides’ behind the skinny tree)
And it was surrounded by trees. Have you ever tried to find somebody who was hiding behind a tree?
They all laugh. HOOVER declines to notice.
Apparently things have gone downhill. Who’s running the agency now?
Nobody knows. The young people all look at one another and shrug.
Perhaps that’s the problem. There was a time when everyone knew who was the Director of the FBI.
I’ll grant you that, you wicked old bastard. Your ugly mug was on almost as many magazines as my own.
Or mine.
Perception is everything.
That’s what Schrodinger said. I always disagreed, though I’m beginning to see feel like one of his cats. (pats HOOVER’s hand) But you must see, J. Edgar, that you built on sand.
Sand? Shit, you mean!
Enter ANNIE, a young woman with spiked hair and anarchist regalia. She comes in through the door in the high board fence, stage right, closing it carefully behind her.
Listen up, people! Nassau Street is already crawling with cops, with riot gear, shields and helmets, and—hey, what’s up? Who are these guys?
DOUG and MALCOLM pull her aside and tell her, in whispers. She looks uncertain, studies EINSTEIN. Apparently the tee shirt is proof positive.
It’s true. My God. Dr. Einstein! (she shakes his hand) My grandfather and him were friends. I wish Grandpa could see this.