A Serious Man Page #2

Reb Groshkover

I shaved hastily this morning and missed a bit—by you this

makes me a dybbuk?

He appeals to the husband:

. . . It’s true, I was sick with typhus when I stayed with

Peselle, but I recovered, as you can plainly see, and now

I—hungh!

The wife steps back.

Reb Groshkover looks slowly down at his own chest in which the wife has just planted an

ice pick.

Reb Groshkover stares at the ice pick.

The wife stares.

The husband stares.

Reb Groshkover bursts out laughing:

. . . What a wife you have!

The husband can manage only a shocked whisper:

Man

Woman, what have you done?

Reb Groshkover looks down again at the ice pick in his chest, the sight refreshing his

laughter. He shakes his head.

Reb Groshkover

Yes, what have you done?

He looks at the husband.

. . . I ask you, Velvel, as a rational man: which of us is

possessed?

Wife

What do you say now about spirits? He is unharmed!

Reb Groshkover

. . . What a wife you have!

The husband can manage only a shocked whisper:

Man

Woman, what have you done?

Reb Groshkover looks down again at the ice pick in his chest, the sight refreshing his

laughter. He shakes his head.

Reb Groshkover

Yes, what have you done?

He looks at the husband.

. . . I ask you, Velvel, as a rational man: which of us is

possessed?

Wife

What do you say now about spirits? He is unharmed!

Reb Groshkover

On the contrary! I don’t feel at all well.

And indeed, blood has begun to soak through his vest.

He chuckles with less energy.

. . . One does a mitzvah and this is the thanks one gets?

Man

Dora! Woe, woe! How can such a thing be!

Reb Groshkover

Perhaps I will have some soup. I am feeling weak. . .

He rises to his feet but totters.

. . . Or perhaps I should go. . .

He smiles weakly at Dora..

. . . One knows when one isn’t wanted.

He walks unsteadily to the door, opens it with effort, and staggers out into the moaning

wind and snow to be swallowed by the night.

The wife and husband stare at the door banging in the wind.

Finally:

Man

Dear wife. We are ruined. Tomorrow they will discover

the body. All is lost.

Wife

Nonsense, Velvel.

She walks to the door. . .

Blessed is the Lord. Good riddance to evil.

. . . and shuts it against the wind.

BLACK:

A drumbeat thumps in black.

Music:
the Jefferson Airplane. Grace Slick’s voice enters:

When the truth is found to be lies

And all the joy within you dies

Don’t you want somebody to love. . .

An image fades in slowly, but even full up it is dim: a round, dull white shape with a

black pinhole center. This white half-globe is a plug set in a flesh-toned field. The flesh

tone glows translucently, backlit. We are drifting toward the white plug and, as we do so,

the music grows louder still.

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