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PARAFFIN
CHARACTERS
DENNY KELLEN, thirty
MARGO KELLEN, Denny’s wife, pregnant, thirty
LUCAS KELLEN, Denny’s younger brother, late twenties
MARTY KUBIAK, sixties
KEVIN O’NEILL, the super, mid-thirties
RAHEL LEVY, Israeli woman, late twenties
IDO LEVY, Rahel’s husband, Israeli, thirty
LESHIK, polish, late twenties
DENA PASZEK, Margo’s friend, thirty
CORY, young friend of Marty’s, African American
SETTING
A third-floor hallway of a pre-war tenement apartment building on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, 2003.
The third-floor hallway in a tenement on the Lower East Side. Three apartments span the upstage wall. A stairwell right, with a window. An apartment extreme stage left. Pushed against the wall is an old upright piano. A piano bench on top of it. The hall is illuminated by an overhead fluorescent light.
A beautiful summer day, August 14, 2003. Ten A.M.
Denny, thin, thirty, is lying on his stomach, unconscious in the hallway. He wears skinny black jeans, no shirt, one two-tone, vintage buckled leather shoe, no socks. He is pasty, filthy. His hair is shaggy, unkempt. His fingernails are painted black. His chest has been cut. One of his arms is twisted oddly behind his back. It looks as if he’s been thrown from a speeding car.
From the street, the sound of a car alarm. The sound of a distant siren. A Spanish radio commercial dopplering by.
From an apartment, the sound of a morning TV show like Regis and Kelly.
Marty Kubiak, an overweight man in his sixties, enters from the stairwell. He is neat in appearance, wearing nice shorts and a summer shirt, carrying a hatbox. He covers his nose, his mouth. He sees Denny, approaches him, bends down, briefly assesses him, steps around him, knocks on a door. Moments later, Denny’s wife, Margo, thirty, opens the door. She is tired. She wears boxers, a T-shirt. She is barefoot. She is six-and-a-half-months pregnant.
MARGO: Hi, Marty. What’s up?
MARTY: Your husband’s in the hall again.
MARGO: I’ll take care of it. What’s that smell?
MARTY: I think he might have done a number two.
MARGO: Jesus, Denny. Sorry, Marty.
MARTY: It’s obviously not your fault.
MARGO (To Denny): Denny, Get up.
DENNY: Jesus, the truck. The fucking truck! Fuck!
MARGO: Rough night?
DENNY: Pretty rough, yeah.
MARGO: Where’d you go after the gig?
DENNY: Out.
MARGO: Out meaning where?
DENNY: Mars Bar. Niagara. The usual.
MARGO: Did Piano’s pay you?
DENNY: Yeah.
MARGO: Good crowd?
DENNY: It was packed.
MARGO: What’d you guys make?
DENNY: Three hundred somethin’.
MARGO: Where’s your cut?
DENNY: I...
