Crazy!

“Well, he’s like an animal,” Miss Tandy said to Miss Hunter. “Thousands of years have passed him right by, and ...”

A deep shuddering sound rose up from the bowels of the theater and the whole stage shook as if in an earthquake. Smoke rose from the floor, the actors could hear the clanking of metal on metal, and the smell of burning rubber permeated the entire building. The smoke cleared and there sat Aaron Aardvark in his time machine – smiling from cheek to cheek. He’d finally made it.

Mr. Brando walked around the corner. “What the hell was that?”

Mr. Williams rose from his seat and walked downstage. “This is not in the script.”

Aaron wrenched himself free from the time machine and walked toward Miss Tandy and Miss Hunter. “No need to worry,” he said. “I’m only here to observe the dress rehearsal. Please carry on, Miss Tandy.”

Mr. Kazan remained in his seat, a pencil in his left hand, the script in his right. “Whoever you are,” he said, projecting his voice across the theater onto the stage, “please leave at once. We’re in the middle of our final rehearsals.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m Aaron Aardvark and I’m from California.”

“Sorry,” Mr. Williams said. “You can’t be in this play. You’re hardly a neurotic Southerner.”

“Why not, Tennessee?” Miss Tandy asked. “I’m not a neurotic Southerner.”

“You’re British,” Mr. Williams replied, “and everyone knows British actresses play Southern belles better than Southern belles.”

“Who are you?” Miss Hunter asked Aaron. “Why’d you come here.”

“My name is Aaron Aardvark came to watch the dress rehearsal for the 20th century’s greatest play.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Kazan said. “The century’s greatest play?”

Aaron looked about him. Miss Tandy, Miss Hunter, Mr. Brando, Mr. Williams, and Mr. Kazan all looked at him with question marks in their eyes and exclamation points on their eyebrows. Should he tell them? Well, he already had.

“I came here in my time machine from San Francisco in 2013. Streetcar is considered the greatest American play ever written. Only Death of a Salesman approaches it.”

“Did I write that?” Mr. Williams asked.

“No,” Aaron replied. “Arthur Miller, 1949.”

“Bah! But tell me more about yourself,” Mr. Williams asked, casting his eyes up and down Aaron’s lanky figure. “And come down here so I can take a closer look.”

“All right,” Mr. Kazan directed. “While Mr. Williams interrogates Mr. Aardvark, back to Scene 4, where we left it. Stage hands, move that damned machine off the stage.”

“You know, “ Mr. Williams said, “I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.”