The Ray Bradbury Theater (1985–1992): Season 3, Episode 9 - To the Chicago Abyss - full transcript
In a large city after an devastating holocaust, an old man is hunted by the police for the crime of reminding people of the good old days.
[music playing]
RAY BRADBURY
(VOICEOVER): People ask,
where do you get your ideas?
Well, right here.
All this is mine.
I'll never starve here.
I'm Ray Bradbury.
And this is--
I have what seems to be
total recall from the moment
of my birth, but if
it should falter,
the toys, the trivia that
surround me in my workroom,
help me remember back 60 years.
But what if I lost
all these in a fire?
Then I'd be forced to rely
on sheer memory alone.
But what about everyone else?
Would they choose to
remember or prefer to forget?
Would my memories
be a threat to them?
To find the answer, I wrote
"To the Chicago Abyss."
Fine wool.
Lambs, huh?
Oh, you don't see
much of that now.
No lambs, huh?
Please, do-- I didn't mean--
you don't have to--
no, please.
You needn't-- I didn't mean it.
Go on.
Chesterfields, Rollies,
Lucky Strikes, Kents, Kools--
those are the names.
Pall Malls, Old Golds.
White, red, amber packs.
Grass green, sky
blue, pure gold.
Shut up.
Gently, gently.
"Gently," he says, "gently."
He doesn't even
know where he is.
And gently look up, damn you.
What do you see out there?
Buildings.
Ruins.
Bomb craters.
I'm sorry.
It's such a nice, friendly day.
Who knows friends?
Who had one?
Back in the '80s, maybe.
You must've been a baby then.
Why, they still had
Butterfingers that year, yeah,
in bright yellow wrappers.
What's wrong with you?
I remember limes and lemons,
that's what's wrong with me.
Do you remember oranges?
You trying to
make me feel bad?
Don't you know the law?
What would the police say,
huh, if they heard you?
All oranges and lemons.
I oughta beat the
living hell outta you!
I ain't hurt no one in so long.
Damn you!
Kids!
Kools!
Baby rolls!
Butterfingers!
Yes.
Yes, oranges,
coffee, cigarettes--
remember.
Kids!
Kools!
Butterfingers!
[panting]
[crying]
Please.
It's my fault. We won't
be hungry forever.
We'll rebuild the cities.
Have No crying.
I just wanted people to
think where we're going,
what we've done.
- Police!
No!
No!
Fool.
I said "Fool."
- You saw.
You were there.
You did nothing.
Fight one fool
to save another?
No.
[fly buzzing]
Come on.
Come on.
Where?
Home.
I don't want you
stolen from us.
I've heard of you for months,
and then just when I find you--
good grief, what did you
say that made that guy mad?
I said about
lemons and oranges.
I-- I was just about to
recollect wind-up toys
and back scratchers.
No wonder.
You bringing back the past.
I almost don't
blame him, old man.
I could almost go mad myself.
Dangerous memories,
dangerous memories.
[police sirens]
Come on, come on.
There's food.
Food?
I don't know.
My mouth--
Well, wine then, until
your mouth feels better.
Here.
Wine.
I can hardly believe it.
Aren't you having any?
We have only one glass.
You first.
To you, kind lady.
To you, kind sir.
To you.
The man to lead us out of limbo.
The man who tells us to rebuild.
To all of us.
To other years.
To old men who talk too much.
To pummelings, beatings,
and lost teeth.
Now relax.
No one followed us.
Old man, why do
you behave like a--
like a saint, panting
after martyrdom?
And everyone's heard of you.
What-- what makes you tick?
17, 18--
19 strands of spaghetti.
And, uh-- 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7--
29 peas.
I shall pray over these
like a fine rosary.
Oh, fine.
I remember.
I remember a motion picture
I once saw as a child.
[pounding on door]
POLICE: [inaudible] Police.
[pounding on door]
Come on, come on.
Police.
We're looking for a
criminal fugitive.
If you turn him in, there's
a week's rations as reward.
A week's rations?
He must be much wanted.
Plus a bonus of 10 cans
of vegetable soup and 5 cans
of beans.
Soup?
Beans?
Think of it.
Uh, we have no
information on the criminal.
Beans.
Soup.
15 solid-packed cans.
[sigh]
Even I was tempted to turn
myself in and claim the reward.
Why didn't you?
You'll find out.
Eat.
Eat.
Now, Wife, go on.
You know what to do.
Go on.
Your wife?
She's going to get everyone
in the apartment house.
Oh, no.
Old man, old man, if
you're going to remember,
and you must remember, why
not do it in one fell blow?
Why waste your
breath on one of two?
Old man, you're no fool.
You have the truth.
Old man, please.
Please, tell us all your gospel.
Why, it's like a theater.
Like motion picture houses.
Yes, yes.
Yes.
And the lights
dim, and the people
hold hands and listen
like in the old days,
with the balconies in the dark.
And in the midst of the smell
of popcorn and Orange Crush,
my show begins.
"Fool."
Well, I accept the name.
Years ago, I looked
at the ruined world,
at the dead states and the
empty nations, and I said,
what can I do?
I'm a tired old man.
What?
Rebuild the devastation?
Hah.
But lying half asleep one night,
I remembered an old phonograph
record I once owned.
It was an ancient
Vaudeville team--
the Duncan Sisters.
Do you hear that?
Remembering.
I sang the song.
And suddenly, it
wasn't a song anymore.
It was a way of life.
What could I offer a
world that was forgetting?
My memory.
How could my memory help?
By making comparisons, by
telling the children what once
was, by considering our losses.
And I found the
more I remembered,
the more I could remember.
Like-- like imitation flowers.
Hm?
Oh.
Dial telephones.
[clicking noise]
Jews' harps, harmonicas, kazoos.
Choo choo.
And bicycle clips.
Oh, not-- not bicycles,
but bicycle clips.
And [inaudible].
Oh.
Giant snowflakes for furniture.
Once, a man asked me to
remember the dashboard
dials on a Cadillac.
Mm.
I remembered.
He cried great tears,
happy or sad, I can't say.
But not literature.
No, I've-- I never had a
head for plays or poems.
They slip away.
They die.
All I am, really,
is a trash heap
of the mediocre, the third-rate,
the hand-me-down, useless and
chromed-over slush and junk,
of a race track civilization
that ran last over a precipice
and still hasn't struck bottom.
All I can offer, really,
is the scintillant junk
and absurd machineries of a
never-ending river of robots
and the robot-mad owners.
Yet, one way or
another, civilization
must get back on the track.
Those who can offer butterfly
poetry, let them remember,
let them offer.
And those who can weave
butterfly nets, let them weave.
My gift is smaller than both,
and perhaps contemptible.
But I-- I must
dream myself worthy.
For the things, see, the
things, silly or not,
the people remember
are the things
they will search for again.
[muffled talking]
Rattle, bang the big
clock together again,
which is the city, the
state, and then the world.
Oh.
Once I would have raved,
only the best is best.
Only quality is true.
Bah.
But roses grow
from blood manure,
and mediocre must be so that
most excellent fine can bloom.
And I shall be the
best mediocre there is.
And I'll fight all those who
say, slide back, slip under,
dust wallow, let brambles
scurry over your living grave.
No.
I shall protest.
[alarm ringing]
The sheep people, munching
in the far fields,
preyed on by the feudal
land baron wolves,
who rarefy themselves
in skyscraper summits
and horde unremembered foods.
And these villains, I shall kill
with can opener and corkscrew.
I'll run them down--
I'll thrash them with licorice
whips until they cry, mercy.
Can one do this?
One can only try.
[pounding on door]
POLICE: Open up!
Police!
Did they hear?
Did they understand?
Yes, this way, this way.
POLICE: Police!
Open up!
[pounding on door]
Open up!
Police!
[panting]
Each month, one train
crosses the country.
Here.
It's a ticket.
One way to the Chicago Abyss.
It's a crater where the city
once was, looking into nothing.
Nothing?
No.
Not nothing, no.
And on that edge, old
man, on the very rim,
you'll find people.
People gathering,
collecting, living.
Tell them not to forget.
And please, after
you leave here,
remember what you must, but
forget you met or know us.
Forget?
Me?
And for God's sake, for
the next year, in the open,
keep your fine mouth shut.
Good.
Did they hear?
Do they know?
Yes.
They heard and remember it.
Thank you.
Now go.
Why are you doing this?
I wanted to remember.
But I couldn't.
Go, go.
[train whistle]
[cough]
Chicago Abyss.
Nighttime.
Cold train.
Old cars.
Crammed with people.
No.
Remember-- quiet.
Shut up.
Careful.
Cease.
Boy, what's your name?
Joseph.
Joseph.
Well.
Joseph, once upon a time--
[train whistle]
[theme music]
RAY BRADBURY
(VOICEOVER): People ask,
where do you get your ideas?
Well, right here.
All this is mine.
I'll never starve here.
I'm Ray Bradbury.
And this is--
I have what seems to be
total recall from the moment
of my birth, but if
it should falter,
the toys, the trivia that
surround me in my workroom,
help me remember back 60 years.
But what if I lost
all these in a fire?
Then I'd be forced to rely
on sheer memory alone.
But what about everyone else?
Would they choose to
remember or prefer to forget?
Would my memories
be a threat to them?
To find the answer, I wrote
"To the Chicago Abyss."
Fine wool.
Lambs, huh?
Oh, you don't see
much of that now.
No lambs, huh?
Please, do-- I didn't mean--
you don't have to--
no, please.
You needn't-- I didn't mean it.
Go on.
Chesterfields, Rollies,
Lucky Strikes, Kents, Kools--
those are the names.
Pall Malls, Old Golds.
White, red, amber packs.
Grass green, sky
blue, pure gold.
Shut up.
Gently, gently.
"Gently," he says, "gently."
He doesn't even
know where he is.
And gently look up, damn you.
What do you see out there?
Buildings.
Ruins.
Bomb craters.
I'm sorry.
It's such a nice, friendly day.
Who knows friends?
Who had one?
Back in the '80s, maybe.
You must've been a baby then.
Why, they still had
Butterfingers that year, yeah,
in bright yellow wrappers.
What's wrong with you?
I remember limes and lemons,
that's what's wrong with me.
Do you remember oranges?
You trying to
make me feel bad?
Don't you know the law?
What would the police say,
huh, if they heard you?
All oranges and lemons.
I oughta beat the
living hell outta you!
I ain't hurt no one in so long.
Damn you!
Kids!
Kools!
Baby rolls!
Butterfingers!
Yes.
Yes, oranges,
coffee, cigarettes--
remember.
Kids!
Kools!
Butterfingers!
[panting]
[crying]
Please.
It's my fault. We won't
be hungry forever.
We'll rebuild the cities.
Have No crying.
I just wanted people to
think where we're going,
what we've done.
- Police!
No!
No!
Fool.
I said "Fool."
- You saw.
You were there.
You did nothing.
Fight one fool
to save another?
No.
[fly buzzing]
Come on.
Come on.
Where?
Home.
I don't want you
stolen from us.
I've heard of you for months,
and then just when I find you--
good grief, what did you
say that made that guy mad?
I said about
lemons and oranges.
I-- I was just about to
recollect wind-up toys
and back scratchers.
No wonder.
You bringing back the past.
I almost don't
blame him, old man.
I could almost go mad myself.
Dangerous memories,
dangerous memories.
[police sirens]
Come on, come on.
There's food.
Food?
I don't know.
My mouth--
Well, wine then, until
your mouth feels better.
Here.
Wine.
I can hardly believe it.
Aren't you having any?
We have only one glass.
You first.
To you, kind lady.
To you, kind sir.
To you.
The man to lead us out of limbo.
The man who tells us to rebuild.
To all of us.
To other years.
To old men who talk too much.
To pummelings, beatings,
and lost teeth.
Now relax.
No one followed us.
Old man, why do
you behave like a--
like a saint, panting
after martyrdom?
And everyone's heard of you.
What-- what makes you tick?
17, 18--
19 strands of spaghetti.
And, uh-- 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7--
29 peas.
I shall pray over these
like a fine rosary.
Oh, fine.
I remember.
I remember a motion picture
I once saw as a child.
[pounding on door]
POLICE: [inaudible] Police.
[pounding on door]
Come on, come on.
Police.
We're looking for a
criminal fugitive.
If you turn him in, there's
a week's rations as reward.
A week's rations?
He must be much wanted.
Plus a bonus of 10 cans
of vegetable soup and 5 cans
of beans.
Soup?
Beans?
Think of it.
Uh, we have no
information on the criminal.
Beans.
Soup.
15 solid-packed cans.
[sigh]
Even I was tempted to turn
myself in and claim the reward.
Why didn't you?
You'll find out.
Eat.
Eat.
Now, Wife, go on.
You know what to do.
Go on.
Your wife?
She's going to get everyone
in the apartment house.
Oh, no.
Old man, old man, if
you're going to remember,
and you must remember, why
not do it in one fell blow?
Why waste your
breath on one of two?
Old man, you're no fool.
You have the truth.
Old man, please.
Please, tell us all your gospel.
Why, it's like a theater.
Like motion picture houses.
Yes, yes.
Yes.
And the lights
dim, and the people
hold hands and listen
like in the old days,
with the balconies in the dark.
And in the midst of the smell
of popcorn and Orange Crush,
my show begins.
"Fool."
Well, I accept the name.
Years ago, I looked
at the ruined world,
at the dead states and the
empty nations, and I said,
what can I do?
I'm a tired old man.
What?
Rebuild the devastation?
Hah.
But lying half asleep one night,
I remembered an old phonograph
record I once owned.
It was an ancient
Vaudeville team--
the Duncan Sisters.
Do you hear that?
Remembering.
I sang the song.
And suddenly, it
wasn't a song anymore.
It was a way of life.
What could I offer a
world that was forgetting?
My memory.
How could my memory help?
By making comparisons, by
telling the children what once
was, by considering our losses.
And I found the
more I remembered,
the more I could remember.
Like-- like imitation flowers.
Hm?
Oh.
Dial telephones.
[clicking noise]
Jews' harps, harmonicas, kazoos.
Choo choo.
And bicycle clips.
Oh, not-- not bicycles,
but bicycle clips.
And [inaudible].
Oh.
Giant snowflakes for furniture.
Once, a man asked me to
remember the dashboard
dials on a Cadillac.
Mm.
I remembered.
He cried great tears,
happy or sad, I can't say.
But not literature.
No, I've-- I never had a
head for plays or poems.
They slip away.
They die.
All I am, really,
is a trash heap
of the mediocre, the third-rate,
the hand-me-down, useless and
chromed-over slush and junk,
of a race track civilization
that ran last over a precipice
and still hasn't struck bottom.
All I can offer, really,
is the scintillant junk
and absurd machineries of a
never-ending river of robots
and the robot-mad owners.
Yet, one way or
another, civilization
must get back on the track.
Those who can offer butterfly
poetry, let them remember,
let them offer.
And those who can weave
butterfly nets, let them weave.
My gift is smaller than both,
and perhaps contemptible.
But I-- I must
dream myself worthy.
For the things, see, the
things, silly or not,
the people remember
are the things
they will search for again.
[muffled talking]
Rattle, bang the big
clock together again,
which is the city, the
state, and then the world.
Oh.
Once I would have raved,
only the best is best.
Only quality is true.
Bah.
But roses grow
from blood manure,
and mediocre must be so that
most excellent fine can bloom.
And I shall be the
best mediocre there is.
And I'll fight all those who
say, slide back, slip under,
dust wallow, let brambles
scurry over your living grave.
No.
I shall protest.
[alarm ringing]
The sheep people, munching
in the far fields,
preyed on by the feudal
land baron wolves,
who rarefy themselves
in skyscraper summits
and horde unremembered foods.
And these villains, I shall kill
with can opener and corkscrew.
I'll run them down--
I'll thrash them with licorice
whips until they cry, mercy.
Can one do this?
One can only try.
[pounding on door]
POLICE: Open up!
Police!
Did they hear?
Did they understand?
Yes, this way, this way.
POLICE: Police!
Open up!
[pounding on door]
Open up!
Police!
[panting]
Each month, one train
crosses the country.
Here.
It's a ticket.
One way to the Chicago Abyss.
It's a crater where the city
once was, looking into nothing.
Nothing?
No.
Not nothing, no.
And on that edge, old
man, on the very rim,
you'll find people.
People gathering,
collecting, living.
Tell them not to forget.
And please, after
you leave here,
remember what you must, but
forget you met or know us.
Forget?
Me?
And for God's sake, for
the next year, in the open,
keep your fine mouth shut.
Good.
Did they hear?
Do they know?
Yes.
They heard and remember it.
Thank you.
Now go.
Why are you doing this?
I wanted to remember.
But I couldn't.
Go, go.
[train whistle]
[cough]
Chicago Abyss.
Nighttime.
Cold train.
Old cars.
Crammed with people.
No.
Remember-- quiet.
Shut up.
Careful.
Cease.
Boy, what's your name?
Joseph.
Joseph.
Well.
Joseph, once upon a time--
[train whistle]
[theme music]