WAITING A drab waiting room. Mr. Nelson, in a suit, sits waiting. A high counter separates him from a receptionist who sits with her back to us. She types. And types. Mr. Nelson clears his throat.

He glances at his watch. He looks around, reaches into his jacket. Without looking up from her typing (nor will she ever): Receptionist: No smoking. Nelson''s hand freezes, then slowly emerges from his jacket, empty. He looks around. He looks at his watch. He glances down at the side table next to him, picks up the two magazines displayed there, looks from one to the other. Nelson: Are there any other magazines? Receptionist: No.

He looks at the first magazine. Nelson: Highlights for Children. The receptionist continues typing. He looks at the second magazine. Nelson: U.S. News & World Report. The receptionist continues typing.

He squints at the second magazine. Nelson: Last April. The receptionist yanks the sheet out of her typewriter. She briefly proofs it against a laminated reference sheet before inserting a new piece of paper and resuming typing. Mr. Nelson puts down the magazines. He looks around. He rises and heads for a small pebbled glass window downstage.

Receptionist: It''s sealed. He freezes. He slowly turns and goes back to his chair. He drums his fingers. He looks around. This time, however, as he faces the fourth wall, something dawns on him. He stares. Alarmed, he looks all around.

He looks suspiciously at the receptionist. Nelson: There''s something funny about this room, isn''t there? Receptionist: Yes. He waits for her to continue. She only types. He elaborates: Nelson: There''s no door. Receptionist: No. He nods. Nelson: So--how did.

He thinks. Again, something dawns. He smiles and, nodding comprehension, bounces a pointing finger at the receptionist. Nelson: I''m dead, aren''t I? Receptionist: Yes. He nods, pleased to have figured it out. He looks at the room again with new appreciation. Nelson: So this is hell. Receptionist: No.

Taken aback, he picks up the two magazines and looks from one to the other. Nelson: Heaven? Receptionist: No. He puts down the magazines, puzzled. Nelson: So.it''s a sort of.purgatory. Receptionist: Sort of. Nelson: So.

it''s not eternal. Receptionist: No. Damn! She stops typing, rolls the paper up a couple of lines, shakes some Wite-Out, paints it onto the paper, blows on it. Nelson: So.how long do I spend in here? Receptionist: Eight hundred and twenty-two years. She rolls the paper down and resumes typing. Again Mr. Nelson looks around, trying to imagine it.

Nelson: And only you to talk to. Receptionist: I don''t talk. He chuckles. Nelson: But that''s a.what do you call it? When it contradicts itself? Receptionist: I can answer questions for six more minutes. After the first ten minutes, I only type. He laughs. Nelson: Oh come on! I''ve been here more than four minutes! She types.

His smile evaporates. He looks at his watch. He looks around. He looks at the receptionist. Nelson: Eight hundred and how many y-- Receptionist: Twenty-two. He nods. He shakes his head. He sucks a tooth, thinking.

Nelson: What if I have to make pee-pee? Receptionist: You won''t. He nods thoughtfully. He looks down at the side table. Nelson: Do they ever change the magazines? The receptionist gives a short humorless hoot. Mr. Nelson nods. He looks around. Nelson: Well eventually--I mean, once I''ve served my time--how.

He nods at the fourth wall. Nelson: How do I get out? Receptionist: After seven hundred and fifty years, they put a door in. He stares at the fourth wall, trying to picture it. He stares for quite a while. The receptionist types on. * * * A plain office. A man sits behind a desk, writing. He writes for a while.

There is a knock. Man: Yes? The door opens hesitantly. Man: Yes, come in. Mr. Nelson enters, still wearing the same suit, clutching a piece of paper. The writing man rises and extends his hand. Man: Mr. Nelson? I''m Mr.

Sebatacheck. Nelson beams. Nelson: Hello. Sebatacheck: Have a seat. Nelson: Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Sebatacheck. Sebatacheck: The typist, where you were waiting, when you left did she give you a.

Nelson: Yes! Nelson holds up the piece of paper. Sebatacheck: May I? Nelson: Yes, yes! He hands it across. Sebatacheck: Great. Sebatacheck keeps up a line of banter as he carefully checks Nelson''s paper against a plastic-laminated reference sheet. His speech is directed down at his desk as he busily refers between Nelson''s paper and his master sheet. Sebatacheck: Well, I''ll bet you''ve had enough of that place. Still beaming, Nelson shakes his head. Nelson: Boy! Phooph! Sebatacheck: Ready for heaven then? Nelson: Boy! I''ve been ready for.

He shakes his head. Sebatacheck: Ready for quite a number of years, I would think. Nelson: Boy! Sebatacheck: Some folks say the first few years are the toughest. Although I don''t suppose it ever really. Nelson: Mm-mm. No sir. Sebatacheck: But then, you''ll like heaven. Everybody does--well, listen to me! He chuckles at himself, still checking the paperwork.

Sebatacheck: Talk about stating the obvious! Nelson laughs along with him. Sebatacheck: Okay, let me just.what?--no! He squints at Nelson''s paper, his smile gone. Sebatacheck: No! He shakes his head, then laughs with disbelief. Alarmed, Nelson looks from the paper to Sebatacheck. Sebatacheck sits back in his chair, laughing and shaking his head. Sebatacheck: No no no no no! Achh. Still smiling and shaking his head, he makes a helpless gesture at the paper.

He enunciates carefully at Nelson: Sebatacheck: Eight thousand and twenty-two years. * * * The waiting room again. The receptionist types. Nelson sits in his chair, bitterly jabbing a finger toward her. Nelson: Eight hundred and twenty-two years. You sat RIGHT there. That''s right, lady. I''m talking to you.

You sat RIGHT there and you said Eight hundred and twenty-two years. I asked you to REPEAT it. You said it TWICE. Eight hundred and twenty-two years. I''m talking to you, lady. YOU. Miss busy-screwing-up-somebody-else''s-inforMAtion. You think I don''t remember? You think just because it was a few thousand years ago I don''t remember? What did I, confuse it with something else you said in the last six thousand five hundred years? You think maybe I got CONFUSED with all the amusing chitter-chatter SPEWING out of your mouth? And let me tell you something else, lady.

You think I''m not gonna tell them about you? About how YOU screwed up? About how you gave me WRONG information?.That''s right, lady. You type. You type while they LET you type. A position of TRUST. A position of AUTHORITY. Important DOCUMENTS. And you.

YOU. Mental MIDGET. Sure. You type. Enjoy it while you can, lady.Heeyeah! * * * The office again. A different man, McMartin, sits behind the desk. On the desk are two sheets of paper, Nelson''s report and the laminated reference page.

Nelson sits in front of the desk but is sprawled forward, elbows resting on the desktop, one hand holding a business card up toward McMartin. Nelson is sobbing. He sobs for some time, motionless, displaying the card. McMartin helplessly shakes his head. Finally he turns two palms up. McMartin: I don''t even know why they brought you here. Nelson brings the words out between hacking sobs: Nelson: Because.I''ve waited.

eight thousand.and twenty-two.years! McMartin: I understand. Nelson: Eight thousand.and twenty-two.years! McMartin: Yes. I understand. But, Mr.

Nelson--your term is twenty-eight thousand and twenty-two years. Nelson: That''s not.what Mr.Sebatacheck said! McMartin: I don''t understand how he could possibly-- Nelson: He checked it! He triple checked it! I begged him to, because I didn''t think it could be that long! He guaranteed me it was right! McMartin: I don''t understand how he could-- Nelson: He said he''d be here when I came back! Or if he wasn''t, he said he could be reached! Mr. Sebatacheck! He swore to me! He gave me his card! McMartin: There''s no way he could''ve-- Nelson: Please take it! Please take it! Mr. Sebatacheck! McMartin sighs. He leans forward and takes the card. Nelson: Mr.

Sebatacheck! McMartin looks at the card. Dubiously shaking his head, he drags the phone across his desk. It is a rotary phone. Referring to the card, McMartin slowly.dials.seven.digits. After a beat he dials.

four.more.digits. He leans back for a long listening wait. Suddenly: McMartin: Mr. Sebatacheck, please.Mr. McMartin, in admissions.

I see.I see.I see. He hangs up. He looks thoughtfully at Nelson. He draws a deep breath. McMartin: Since Mr. Sebatacheck cannot be reached, I''m afraid I have no choice but to-- Nelson: Why?! Why can''t he be reached? McMartin: --I''m afraid you''ll have to serve out the balance of your term.

Nelson: Mr. Sebatacheck! McMartin: Your term is twenty-eight thousand and twenty-two years. I-- Nelson: He said ei.