SALLY: Haven’t checked. That’s not my job. It’s Lucy’s. Juicy Lucy.

ROSCOE: I see.

SALLY: Lucy’s in there right now—shooting her up. Why don’t you ask her?

ROSCOE: We’re on a junkie jag here, aren’t we?

SALLY: You started it. Sedatives—vitamins—antibiotics—I don’t know. A regular chemical cocktail.

ROSCOE: Right.

SALLY: She’s got a nurse with her as well.

ROSCOE: Can’t the nurse—?

SALLY: My mother has quirky requirements.

ROSCOE: What’s the matter with her?

SALLY: Nobody seems to know.

ROSCOE: Doctors?

SALLY: “Rigors,” they’re calling it.

ROSCOE: Oh—so they have a name for it?

SALLY: Psychosomatic.

ROSCOE: Soon as they have a name they give up.

SALLY: What?

ROSCOE: Trying to figure out what it is.

SALLY: Paralysis—her hands are like claws. Feet all seized up.

ROSCOE: What happened to her? Something must’ve happened.

SALLY: Fell out of a pine tree. Way back.

ROSCOE: Pine tree?

SALLY: Middle of the night. High up.

ROSCOE: Climbing? What was she doing?

SALLY: Accident. Trauma—you know.

ROSCOE: Do you think I could meet her?

SALLY: Why?

ROSCOE: Well—I’d just like to meet her. We’re all living in the same house.

SALLY: I thought you said you were just visiting. On the mend.

ROSCOE: Well, sure—yeah.

SALLY: Just to heal up from your separation. That’s what you told me, isn’t it?

ROSCOE: That’s right. Don’t think I’m not grateful for the hospitality.

SALLY: You’re not “living” here.

ROSCOE: No.

SALLY: This isn’t your home.

ROSCOE: No, it isn’t.

SALLY: You’re a visitor.

ROSCOE: Yes!

SALLY: Good.

(Long pause. ROSCOE gazes out over the audience to the distance.)

ROSCOE: How did you find this place, anyway?

SALLY: My mother’s owned it for years. Divorce settlement.

ROSCOE: Spectacular view.

SALLY: (Looking out in same direction.) Yeah. They say James Dean used to stay here.

ROSCOE: Really?

SALLY: When he was first starting out. Yeah. Slept in that same bed you’re sleeping in. Just like George Washington.

ROSCOE: You’re kidding!

SALLY: I never “kid.”

ROSCOE: That’s unbelievable! James Dean?

SALLY: Yeah. Fresh out of Indiana. ’Course it might be just another fable in the L.A. canon of hysterical imaginings.

ROSCOE: Hysterical what?

SALLY: Never mind.

(Long pause. They both stare out over audience in the direction of the great Los Angeles Valley.)

ROSCOE: (Staring out.) I’ve never seen it from way up like this. You can see the whole valley.

SALLY: Yeah. The whole nasty panorama in one gasping breath. When it’s clear, you can see the Pacific.

ROSCOE: (Pointing) Is that it?

SALLY: What?

ROSCOE: That bluish band way out there.

SALLY: (Looking where he’s pointing.) No, that’s smog. It’s over there—when you can see it. The ocean. (Pointing in different direction.)

ROSCOE: Blue smog? I thought smog was yellow.