Death In Scarsdale
by Victor Levin

"Crazy?

Of course I'm crazy," announces David R. Irkman.

"I eat crazy for breakfast.

I majored in crazy college.

With a minor in Babylonian drapery hardware.

What can I say?

It was liberal arts."

Irkman is dead.

In the wake of a divorce from the only woman he would ever love, he has run his Plymouth into a Scarsdale telephone pole.

Now he emerges from his coffin for commentary, clowning through suburban New York tears.

Admittedly, he asphyxiated Robin with his affections.

"David," she told him, "if you decided to love a houseplant, you could probably drive it out of the house."

But she was all that was real to him in a world where even the neighbor's goldfish has been psychoanalyzed.

"She loves me," David bemoans, "but she's not in love with me."

A unique combination of sophisticated humor and stirring pathos, with superb roles for your actors.

Area staging.