A Serious Man Page #7

making sure of his balance. He looks around.

His point-of-view toward the front: an unfamiliarly high perspective on the street and the

neighboring houses, almost maplike. Very peaceful. Wind gently waves the trees.

Larry gingerly walks up to the aerial at the peak of the roof. He straddles the peak and,

reacting to a rhythmic popping noise, looks down toward the back.

Foreshortened Mr. Brandt and Mitch are playing catch in their back yard. With each toss

the ball pops, alternately in father’s mitt and son’s.

Mitch

Ow.

Precariously balanced, Larry reaches up for the aerial. He tentatively touches it. He

grasps it. He twists the aerial.

Something strange: as it rotates the aerial creaks—a high whine like the hum sounded

from the rim of a wineglass.

Mitch

Ow.

Faintly, under the wineglass sound, and clouded by static, a ringing tenor sings in an

unfamiliar modality. Cantorial music.

Larry drops his hand. Inertia keeps the aerial rotating slowly til it dies, the sound drifting

away into the sybillant shushing of treesshushing of trees.

Larry reaches out again to turn the aerial. The same crystal hum. . . cantorial singing. . .

and now, layering in, the theme from F Troop.

Music. Crystal hum. Wind.

Mitch

Ow.

Larry’s look travels: his point-of-view pans slowly off the steep angle on the neighbors’

game of catch, travels across his own backyard, and brings in the white fence that

encloses the patio of the neighbor on the other side.

Mr. Brandt (off)

Good toss, Mitch.

On the enclosed patio a woman reclines on a lawn chaise of nylon bands woven over an

aluminum frame. She is on her back, eyes closed against the sun. She is naked.

Mitch (off)

Ow.

Larry reacts to the naked woman: startled at first, he moves to hide behind the peak of the

roof. But as he realizes that the sun keeps the woman’s eyes closed he relaxes, continuing

to stare.

She is attractive. Not young, not old: Larry’s age. Peaceful.

After a still beat one of her hands gropes blindly to the side. It finds an ashtray on the

table next to her and takes from it a pluming cigarette. She puffs and replaces it.

Mitch (off)

Ow.

F Troop. Cantorial singing.

Blue sky and white puffy clouds.

The sound of a pencil scratching paper.

NOTEBOOK:

A pencil writes equations into a lamplit spiral notebookok.

Sidor Belarsky comes in at the cut. So does the spluttering suck-sound of Uncle Arthur’s

evacuator.

Wider on Uncle Arthur, in his pyjamas, propped up on the narrow fold-out sofa, writing

with one hand as he holds the evacuator hose to his neck with the other.

Squeezed into the living room next to the fold-out sofa is a camp cot of plaid-patterned

nylon stretched over a folding frame. On the camp cot is Larry, lying half-in, half-out of

a rumpled sleeping bag. He stares at the ceiling, a damp washcloth pressed to his

forehead. His face is flaming red.

Arthur speaks absently as he scribbles:

Arthur

Will you read this? Tell me what you think?

Larry continues to stare at the ceiling.

Larry

Okay.

Uncle Arthur glances up, focuses on Larry.

Arthur

Boy. You should’ve worn a hat.

LATER:

The lights are out. Very quiet. Uncle Arthur lightly snores.

Larry still stares at the ceiling. He shifts his weight. The cot frame squeaks. He shifts

again. Another creak.

Larry fishes his watch from the jumble of clothes on the floor: 4:50.

KITCHEN:

Larry, in his underwear, spoons ground coffee into the percolator. Uncle Arthur snores

on in the other room.

From outside, a dull thunk.

Larry pulls back a curtain.

Next door, Mr. Brandt goes down the walk, wearing camouflage togs and camo billed

cap, a rifle bag slung over his shoulder. He is carrying an ice chest, its contents clicking

and sloshing.

The boy Mitch, also wearing camo clothes and cap and also with a rifle bag, has just

closed the front door. He now lets the screen door swing shut behind him and follows his

father down the walkway to the car in the drive.

The twitter of early morning birds. Mr. Brandt’s voice, though not projected, stands out

in the pre-dawn quiet:

Mr. Brandt

Let’s see some hustle, Mitch.

CLOSE ON THE NOTEBOOK

Its top sheet, densely covered by equations, has a heading:

The Mentaculus

Compiled by Arthur Gopnik

After a beat Larry’s hand enters to turn the page. The second page is also densely

covered with equations.

Voice

Larry?

Larry’s look comes up from the Mentaculus. We are in Larry’s office. Standing in the

office doorway is Arlen Finkle.

Larry

Hi Arlen.

Arlen Finkle

Larry, I feel that, as head of the tenure committee I should

tell you this, though it should be no cause for concern. You

should not be at all worried.

his, though it should be no cause for concern. You

should not be at all worried.

Larry waits for more. Arlen, though, seems to think it is Larry’s turn to speak.

Larry

Okay.

Arlen Finkle

I feel I should mention it even though we won’t give this

any weight at all in considering whether to grant you

tenure, so, I repeat—no cause for concern.

Larry

Okay, Arlen. Give what any weight?

Arlen Finkle

We have received some letters, uh. . . denigrating you, and,

well, urging that we not grant you tenure.

Larry

From who?

Arlen Finkle

They’re anonymous. And so of course we dismiss them

completely.

Larry

Well. . . well. . . what do they say?

Arlen Finkle

They make allegations, not even allegations, assertions, but

I’m not really. . . while we give them no credence, Larry,

I’m not supposed to deal in any specifics about the

committee’s deliberations.

Larry

But. . . I think you’re saying, these won’t play any part in

your deliberations.

Arlen Finkle

None at all.

Larry

Um, so what are they. . .

Arlen Finkle

Moral turpitude. You could say.

Larry

Uh-huh. Can I ask, are they, are they—idiomatic?

Arlen Finkle

I, uh. . .

Larry

The reason I ask, I have a Korean student, South Korean,

disgruntled South Korean, and I meant to talk to you about

this, actually, he—

Arlen Finkle

No. No, the letters are competently—even eloquently—

written. A native English-speaker. No question about

that.

Larry

Uh-huh.

Arlen Finkle

But I reiterate this, Larry: no cause for concern. I only

speak because I would have felt odd concealing it.

Larry

Yes, okay, thank you Arlen.

Arlen Finkle

Best to Judith.

Larry answers with a wan smile. He looks down at the Mentaculus.

HEBREW SCHOOL EXTERIOR

Day. Somewhere inside the school a bell rings. Its doors swing open and children

emerge.

Our angle is down a line of school buses waiting to ferry the children home, each bus

stenciled with the same Hebrew lettering.

waiting to ferry the children home, each bus

stenciled with the same Hebrew lettering.

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