1984. The air in the theater has a special, repulsive smell. The chemical, blood and airplane glue smell of Placidyl-breath. Clouds of Placidyl-breath assault the audience. They have never smelled it before, but they will remember it for the rest of their lives.
Two men, JOE, a white-haired security guard in a uniform that looks like it's from the 1940s, and PLACIDYL OD, wearing filthy knock-off jeans and a humorous tee shirt, stand in front of the St. Clares Hospital emergency room. It's night, and several men sleep on the stoop to their right. Empty pint-wine bottles glitter around them.
Where’s my money? Where’s my wallet? The ambulance drivers!
No, no, the ambulance drivers here are different.
They drive around the block until you pass out, then they go through your pockets!
They don’t have time to do that.
Those kind of individuals make time. Where's my wallet, they stole my wallet!!
No no, you know what I'm sure happened, it happens all the time. See, you were out. You were out cold and the ambulance picked you up, and your wallet probably fell out of your pocket when you were on stretcher. You need to go find the ambulance people and ask them to look under their stretcher. Now, this is 52nd Street, go to 52nd and Broadway. They wait at 50th and Broadway and 52nd and Broadway. Now if they're not at 50th and Broadway, go one more block to the east. Ask them to look. Now, they tend to work west to east. So if they're not on Seventh, go one more . . ."
PLACIDYL OD, glassy-eyed, bored into submission, staggers off towards 9th Avenue.
(Repeat every night for three years.)