MIAMI WEISS 
The disturbing misadventures of a retired private eye with advancing dementia.

Part 1

INT. RETIREMENT HOME – RECREATION ROOM – DAY

MOE WEISS, a belligerent octogenarian with a twinkle in his eye, sits in front of a large flat-screen TV, surrounded by other ELDERLY RESIDENTS. He’s babbling, oblivious to his surroundings

WEISS: I like being a private eye…

OLD WOMAN: You talking to me, Mr. Weiss?

WEISS: But to be perfectly honest with you, it’s been a long time between cases...

OLD WOMAN: Last week you were a fighter pilot.

WEISS: Sure, I cracked the Passover Blintz hijacking in ’52, but what can I say? I got old…

OLD WOMAN: Meshuggenah.

WEISS: Passed enough kidney stones to pave a driveway. I lost my nerve….

OLD WOMAN: And your hair. And your teeth.

ATTENDANT walks over with a glass of sparkling water.

ATTENDANT: Here’s your seltzer, Mr. Weiss.

WEISS: That’s very kind of you. I appreciate it. If you’re not too busy, maybe you could get for me a nice tall glass of seltzer, too, while you’re at it. If it's not too much trouble...

Weiss sips from the glass as the attendant rolls her eyes and turns away. Weiss reaches out and pinches her ass; she reacts startled. He belches and smiles contentedly. Then his wheels begin to turn… he remembers something.

WEISS: Seltzer… Oh yeah! Get out! Like it was yesterday, I remember. I remember the seltzer… (He holds the glass up to his eyes and watches the tiny bubbles) I remember the bubbles…

EXT. SUBURBAN BACK-YARD – TEN YEARS EARLIER – DAY

Weiss, now a younger man in late 70s, is seated on a lawn chair, garden hose in one hand and his teeth in the other.

WEISS:  (in voice-over)   I was sitting in the lawn chair, rinsing the poppy seeds from my lower denture with the garden hose, when I heard the gunshot. They say you never hear the bullet with your name on it, which is beside the point, because it wasn't even a gunshot in the first place. It was my hemorrhoid donut pillow exploding under my tuchus, courtesy of my grandson, Elliot, and his fercockta Swiss Army Knife - the Champion model that I bought him for his Bar Mitzvah wholesale. When I grabbed from him the knife and offered to make him another circumcision with no anesthetic, he ran kvetching to my daughter-in-law, Mildred, the bleach-blonde shiksa with the bare midriff that haunts my wet dreams....

Back porch screen door swings open and MILDRED, late 40s, bleach-blond beehive, leans out.

MILDRED: Hey, pa… telephone for you! A Mrs. Feldman.

Weiss replaces his dentures, rises and shuffles toward the house.

WEISS: Get out! The chesty widow with the fingernails and the big red lips?

MILDRED: She says she’s your proctologist’s nurse.

WEISS: The ass doctor?! Sonofabitch! I bet they found a tumor on my X-ray!

To be continued….