There Won't Be War

She zips away rapidly REAR and comes back escorting the skyline, which, as it approaches, changes from fairy tale to Everytown. The castles are actually church spires—Methodist, Baptist, Congregationalist, R. C. Jane reaches down with her wand and touches one of the spires, and the zitzy fairy dust becomes snow. We are looking at a New England town in winter. It could well be Thornton Wilder's Our Town.

JANE:

What I’m trying to do is show whose fault it was. I mean, I already know whose. It was yours, all of yours. You fuckers. But I want to nail it down so there’s no argument.

Sound of caroling comes up: God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen. The camera comes down and looks through open church doors on the congregation. Jane comes to rest on the steps of the church, looking inside for a moment before she turns back to us.

JANE:

Take Christmas. I mean, take Christmas—please. Listen to this guy.

The caroling has stopped and the minister, who looks like Robert Morley, is offering a prayer.

MINISTER:

And at this time of rejoicing, Lord, we ask of Thee a special care for our sons and brothers who now battle in Thy service in far-off lands. Save them from harm.

Let their valiant sacrifice be rewarded with the destruction of those who set themselves against Thee and our sacred cause, we beseech Thee in Thy holy name.

Jane shakes her head.

JANE:

How do you like that guy? Oh, you know, some ways Christmas must have been a lot of fun in the old days, right? Giving presents and all? Celebrating the passing of the winter solstice and the lengthening of the days? Remembering the birthday of this Prince of Peace fellow, and everybody saying they were going to love everybody? I mean, love everybody except those other guys.

The congregation rises and begins to come out into the winter day. Two boys start a snowball fight. Their mothers, flustered but laughing, call to them to stop it, but the boys go on.

JANE:

So why’d you always have to go and screw it up? I mean, do you think we like having to wear these Goddamned suits?

One of the snowballs catches Jane behind the ear and knocks her sprawling. She looks up, resigned.

JANE:

It couldVe been worse. It couldVe been a hand grenade. You know, a lot of the time it was. Why, I remember a time, a war or two ago—

She stops to think, rubbing her ear. Then she shakes her head, wincing.

JANE:

No, that one wasn’t a hand grenade. It was a soldier, and he got me with the butt of his gun. Tell you about it another time, but first I want you to meet some friends of mine.

She pushes away the backdrop that is the New England town scene, which has frozen into inaction, and reveals that the set of a TV game show is already in place behind it. On this set we see eight young men, all in uniform, though the uniforms aren’t the same. Jane strips out of her spacesuit and is revealed in the tails and tights of a girl tapdancer. She puts on a top hat; her wand has become a circus ringmaster’s whip. Music up; she flourishes the whip and speaks.

JANE:

Welcome to our version of “The Dating Game!”

She points to the man in the first position. He is wearing the uniform of a British soldier of the 1914 war; his head is bandaged, and his helmet is perched on top of the bandage.

JANE:

Bachelor Number One, will you tell us why you’re here?