[Chicago, 1957. A lived-in, working class apartment in a six-flat in Albany Park. The decor reflects a notion of gentility from the 30s, which is when the current occupants moved in: cut-glass candy bowls and Chinese figures in painted porcelain. Sofa downstage center, in the parlor. Big winged leather chair beside it. Bedroom door upstage center. Kitchen offstage left. Bathroom offstage right. An old man, Sam, is lying faceup on the sofa. Small and lean and self-contained, he wears a pressed white shirt, brown wool slacks with suspenders. No socks or shoes. An old lady, Bessie, appears in the bedroom doorway, wearing a nightgown and glasses with Coke-bottle lenses. She is as thick as Sam is lean, formidable as the Venus of Willendorf. From her vantage point she can’t see Sam on the sofa, addresses him as though he were in the bathroom. She has a Yiddish accent processed through decades in Chicago.]
[Shakes him. No response.]
BESSIE Ain’t that a kick in the head. [Suddenly, as if to shock him awake:] Sam! [No response.] Heh. And that’s the end of that.
[Bessie stops.]
BESSIE Sam.
SAM You felt my wrist, Bessella.
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SAM I’m talking should be the tip-off. Did I talk, I was alive? I’m dead all right, Bessie. Your Sammy’s finally dead. I want you should call the kids.
