№. 4—On Sunday Morning

This happened the other night — we were talking about this project:

LUCIANO: We need to have another word for “bipolar.”

STEPHANIE: Why?

LUCIANO: Well, I don’t really have classic bipolar — the mania, all that stuff that goes along with it. And the downs — the big, huge — What? Why are you looking at me like that?

LUCIANO: Oh God, I know! I know! Fuck me! But it’s so hard to talk about! We need a secret word.

STEPHANIE: Secret word? Like what?

LUCIANO: You know, like, my father had a secret word to make me shut up, when I was a little kid. For when we were around other people and I was talking too much.

STEPHANIE: He did? What a jerk! What was it?

LUCIANO: What was what?

STEPHANIE: The secret word!

LUCIANO: I don’t know. I can’t remember. It was, like, “scaciama,” or something.

STEPHANIE: Scaciama?

LUCIANO: I don’t know, Stephanie! I don’t remember! It was like, you know: Secret code. Something like, On Sunday morning the postman brings ice.

STEPHANIE: On Sunday morning the postman brings ice? That’s nothing like scaciama. And besides, it’s got a few logical inconsistencies. I mean, first of all, the…