So, I've taken to writing screen-plays lately. Writing novels, novellas, short stories... whatever they were intended to be... hasn't been working out for me, so I figured it's time to try my hand at something new. It's a bit long for a Xanga (though only 12 pages in StarOffice, minus the title page), but what better opportunity will I ever have to share it with others?
It's a work in progress, so forgive some of the formatting errors and the like.
FADE
IN
EXT.Construction
Site – Day
A
big, nondescript city is hilighted. The camera PANS across the
cement rooftops and down toward the mundane happenings of the
urbanites below. Various upperclass people are profiled; on cell
phones, ordering coffee, etc. Finally, we come to rest on a
construction site where a very different scene is unfolding.
Men
in hardhats and simple clothing are seen all around, sweating under
the hot sun. A few conversations are overheard, dealing in
mostly vulgar descriptions of hook-ups and drunk tales.Finally, the
camera settles on a medium shot of DON; an older gent with stark
features that keeps his long, silver hair in a ponytail behind him.
DON
is approached from behind by his Foreman, a strapping young man
who towers over the plump fellow beside him in an expensive suit
that seems out of place underneath the hardhat he was required to
don.
FOREMAN:
(to man beside him)
This is the guy you're lookin' fer, right? God only
knows what legal bullshit he's gotten in this time.
DON
turns to regard the two men behind him. The shorter one shifts
uncomfortably.
GOLDWATER:
Mr. Brookes? I'm Gerome Goldwater, with the firm Dunbar &
Dunbar.
GOLDWATER
reaches out his hand, but DON only glares at him. When GOLDWATER
looks to the foreman for support, the young man only shrugs with a
bit of a chuckle and walks off.
DON:
I know who you are. Make it quick.
GOLDWATER:
I see. Well, let me assure you, and your boss, that you're in
absolutely no legal trouble. Our firm would just like to ask you
some questions about your
late wife.
DON:
She's dead. Not much more to know.
DON
returns to his work, measuring out something halfheartedly,
obviously trying to get the lawyer off
of
his back.
GOLDWATER:
Very well, Mr. Brookes, I can see you're a busy man,
but unfortunately, since you've been refusing our calls, I'm
afraid I'm left without any choice but to
finish this here.
DON
continues to ignore him.
GOLDWATER:
Did your late wife have any relatives besides yourself, Mr.
Brookes?
DON:
No.
GOLDWATER:
Really? No brothers or sisters? Maybe an aunt or uncle?
DON:
No.
GOLDWATER:
Are you certain? Because there have been a number of claims being
made by several individuals that-
DON:
Katie didn't have any relatives. She was an only child and both
of her parents are deader 'n she is.
GOLDWATER:
Yes, but there have been numerous people, people with DNA
evidence, who are saying the contrary, and we simply need-
DON:
I don't really care. Just give 'em the money if they're that
damned convinced. Leave me out of it.
GOLDWATER
regards DON for a moment before sighing in defeat. He begins to
walk off, before turning back toward DON.
He seems to be filled with a newfound strength when he approaches
DON, this time stepping almost toe-to-toe with him.
GOLDWATER:
Do you think you can ignore us forever, Mr. Brookes? We wouldn't
even be in this situation if you hadn't refused the money in the
first place.
GOLDWATER
leans in closer to DON, his voice only just above a whisper.
GOLDWATER:
That does pose an
interesting question, doesn't it, Mr. Brookes? You, a small town
Iowa boy who marries into big money until one night your wife is
mysteriously murdered. You discover the body, you call it
into the police, and you're the number one suspect until only a
month ago. Then they release the lien on all of Mrs. Brookes's
assets and you---and here's the part that I don't quite
understand, no matter how many times I try ---you refuse the
money. I was with the Public Defender's office for nearly
fifteen years before I achieved this position, Mr. Brookes, and I
may not know everything about your case, but I know the workings
of a guilty conscience when I see it.
DON:
You think you can scare
me with that pop psychology bullshit? Why don't you and those
Dunbar pricks just take it and then piss off.
FOREMAN (O.S.):
Hey, you gonna wrap that
up, Don? You're already behind.
DON:
Yeah. . . I was just
finishin' up.
DON begins to walk away,
but GOLDWATER catches him by the arm.
GOLDWATER:
Listen, Mr. Brookes, I
don't care what you did. But if that money goes to the bank,
they've got their own team of lawyers who will be sure to take a
sweeping commission out of our cut. I suggest you take the
money, Don. Make it easier on all of us.
DON:
I stopped taking advice
from lawyers when they told me to plea.
DON snatches his arm back
from the lawyer and walks away.
CUT TO:
INT. BAR -NIGHT
A dimly lit dive. At one
time it might have been hip, but now it's left to only the most
hardcore patrons. People dot the room here and there, mostly aging
old men reminiscing about the good old days and a few tired drunks
getting their rounds in before last call. Smoke hangs adrift in the
room, obscuring its one amenity: an olde-time juke box with original
45s. It's been knicked and scratched up, and there are scuff marks
on the bottom from being abused by the angry scragglers over the
years. DON hovers over it, his silver hair let loose in a scraggly
mess, lovingly running his fingers over the inscription on the side
of the brass: “WITH LOVE”.
WOMAN (O.S.):
You met her here, didn't
you?
DON jumps at the voice in
spite of himself. He barely turns his head all the way to regard
the woman behind him, a dark haired beauty with a voloptuous figure
and full lips.
DON:
Hmph. Yeah.
WOMAN:
Never fails. Men have a
look when they're pining. It would be sad if it weren't so
poetic.
DON shrugs. There's a
heavy silence in the air, although
it doesn't feel awkward.
WOMAN:
She must have touched you
very deeply. Who was she? [pause] That is, if you don't mind me
asking.
DON:
SHE's
my wife. Was my wife. She
passed on about a year ago.
WOMAN:
Oh, I'm so sorry.
DON:
Why? No use for it. You
can't bring her back so save your “sorry's” for somebody who
can use 'em.
WOMAN:
Hmm. What's your name?
DON:
Look, I just want some
privacy.
WOMAN:
Obviously. You picked
quite the place for it. I don't think this place has seen any
business since the Cold War ended. God only knows how they afford
that thing.
DON:
Katie, she- my wife
donated it.
WOMAN:
Awfully generous of her.
But you still haven't told me
your name.
DON:
It's Don. Don Brookes.
Now, if you don't mind. . .
WOMAN:
A pleasure to meet you,
Don Brookes. I'm Crystal. Call me Chris, if you like; really,
I'd even prefer it.
DON:
You know, you're a real
piece of work.
CHRIS:
You're not the first
strange man in a bar to tell me that.
DON:
I meant the machine. I'm
still ignoring you.
CHRIS:
I see. So how's that
working out for you?
DON:
How's what working out
for me?
CHRIS:
Ignoring me. Because it
doesn't seem like you're doing
so hot at it.
DON:
Do you make it this hard
on everybody you meet in strange bars?
CHRIS:
No, only the ones I like.
DON:
This may be hard for you
get, but I really want to be
left alone right now.
CHRIS:
Actually, I think I
understand.
DON:
Nothin' to understand.
Just don't wanna be bothered.
CHRIS:
Oh no, I understand
perfectly. The last time you bothered, the last time you let
someone in, they
were taken from you.
Ripped from you, and no matter
what comfort anybody
tries to offer, no matter how
many times they tell you
that this person is in a better place, or that they're with God
now, no matter
how many times they
assure you that one day you'll see
them again, all you feel
is this vast emptiness. Like
not just a part of you,
but all of you, everything that
made you be, is gone.
Just gone. And all of those people, those people who are trying
so hard to help,
don't get it---couldn't
possibly get it---because . . .
DON:
(still looking down)
They're still whole. Who
was it?
CHRIS:
My daughter. She would
have been six now.
DON:
I'm sorry.
CHRIS:
(smiling, but choking
back tears)
Save it for somebody who
can use it.
DON finally looks to the
woman's eyes, searching for the right words.
CHRIS:
(suddenly upbeat)
Hey, listen, Don, I'm a
little short on cash tonight.
But I'll make you a deal:
You be right here tomorrow,
and the drinks are on me.
Sound good?
DON looks at her, not quite
sure what to make of the situation. Still unable to understand
quite how he should respond, DON shrugs and turns back toward the
jukebox.
CHRIS:
Huh. Same time, then?
Right here.
CHRIS exits, and the camera
CUTS to a close-up shot of DON running his fingers along the
engraving.
CUT TO:
INT. DON'S APARTMENT -NIGHT
A bland, drab apartment.
White walls, white ceiling, with a hodgepodge of furniture that
looks like it was
collected from thrift
stores and unpacked boxes serving as tables.
DON enters lackadaisally,
carrying a grocery bag in one hand. He immediately heads straight
for the fridge and begins to place the contents of the bag inside:
ham and
various types of liquor.
He stops for a moment and inspects something he sees in the fridge
more closely, he does a double take, shrugs, and then grabs the last
bottle of liquor from the bag for himself.
DON heads out from the
kitchen and plops down in the love seat, entire fifth of vodka in
hand. He checks the messages on the answering machine sitting on
the box/table next to him.
Man's Voice (on machine):
Mr. Brookes? This is
Alfred Dunbar, of Dunbar & Dunbar. We have here the final
paperwork dealing with the allocation of your late wife's estate,
and if you'll just give us a call at-
DON slams on the delete
button, prompting the robotic “Message Deleted” recording and
the next message to play.
Man's Voice (on machine):
Hello, this is Larry
Dunbar--
DON slams it again.
Man's Voice:
Hi, Barry Goldwater here.
Unfortunately, my associates
have had some trouble
contacting you, Mr. Brookes, so they've asked me to speak with you
and-
DON slams the machine
multiple more times. Over and over again it's represenatives from
the Dunbar firm.
Woman's Voice (on
machine):
Hey, Don, it's Terry.
Look, I know it's been a while now, almost two months, I guess,
but I, that is, Jane and I, we're just thinking about you and. . .
I don't know, just, we're worried about you, Don. You can't
just keep moping around like this. Even the kids are beginning to
ask questions. . . I mean, Christ, Don, it's been well over a
year, and it wasn't your fault. Nobody thinks that. You have to
forgive yourself sometime. . . Well, I'm here if you need to talk
to me. I was your friend, too, Don. I just want you to be
happy again. Please, give me a call? We all love you.
And we miss you, Don.
DON leans back and lets out
a sigh of relief at the end of the messages. He begins to drink
from his bottle and turns on the small television set across the
room. Over the sound of the box the phone rings again. Without
even paying it a second look, DON picks it up and hangs it up again.
CUT TO:
INT. DINER -DAY
One of those rare,
unpretentious diners in the big city. The customers are all the
working class joes who commute each day, men in denim and t-shirts,
women in waitress and subway uniforms. The camera cuts to DON
sitting with one of his coworkers, a burly fella by the name
of GARY. GARY wolfs down a huge platter while DON sits with only a
coffee and a cigarette.
GARY:
What the hell's with you,
Matilda? Watching your figure?
DON:
I'm just not hungry.
GARY:
You're never hungry.
Lemme ask you something: When's the last time you ate somethin'?
DON:
What month is it?
GARY:
Alright, be a wise ass.
Makes no difference to me, all I'm saying is that you might not
always look like hell if you just ate somethin' once in a while.
How old're you now, Don? Fifty-five? Six?
DON:
I'm forty-four.
GARY:
Jesus jumped up Christ!
How long've you looked like an old man for?!
DON:
Long as I can remember,
Gary. Hurry up and finish, we're due in ten minutes.
GARY:
(between mouthfuls)
Look, all I know is, you
either gotta get fed or get laid 'cause you don't look too healthy
to me.
DON:
You're saying I'd be
better served with eggs in my
moustache and a beer gut?
GARY:
I really got eggs in my
moustache?
DON:
Every day, Gary. Every
day. And for Chrissake, use a napkin. You look like a goddamned
pig.
GARY:
Lemme ask you somethin',
Don. When's the last time you got laid? And, God rest her soul,
I don't mean by your wife, 'cause we all know that's been at least
three years now.
DON:
She died a year and a
half ago.
GARY:
Exactly. So?
DON:
So what?
GARY:
So when's the last time
you got fucked, man? Girlfriend? Some chick you met in a bar?
Hooker
from down on 84th?
'Cause, if you want, I know people.
DON:
Whores. Tempting. But
it doesn't matter. I might
be getting lucky tonight
even.
GARY:
Oh yeah? And who is she?
Precisely, that is. Or do I have to have a DVD player to meet her?
DON:
Shut up and eat, asshole.
GARY:
Just sayin'. You want a
good lay, nothin's better than
Misty up on 84th.
Nothin'.
DON:
Thanks, Gary. I'll keep
that in mind if it doesn't work out tonight.
DON checks his watch and
seems taken aback by how much they've already wasted. He stands up
and tosses a couple
of dollar bills on the
table.
DON:
I'll meet you back at the
site. Think you mind walking
back?
GARY:
You kidding? I get
winded on the way to the can. I'll follow you out.
CUT TO:
INT. BAR – NIGHT
DON enters the stark, black
door leading into the dive
he's become
all-too-familiar with. It's a weekend, so
business has picked up a
bit, though the crowd seems more roughneck. Honkey-Tonk blares from
the jukebox Don had been admiring the night before.
The bartender nods in DON's
direction. They don't know
each other by name, but DON
is familiar enough to be nearly considered a friend. Don grabs a
seat that makes his presence obvious from the door,and shifts
uncomfortably. He knows his jacket and slacks are overly dressy
for the occasion.
CHRIS enters shortly
thereafter, in stunning red dress;
the type usually only seen
in seedy B movies. Her lipstick is red to match and she seems
almost too perfect for her surroundings. She spots DON at the table
and joins him enthusiastically.
CHRIS:
What a surprise! I
would've bet money you would stand me up!
DON:
You are buying the
drinks.
CHRIS:
Don't you know how to
make a girl feel special? Well,
what's your drink? (DON
moves to speak, but CHRIS cuts
him off) No, wait, let me
guess. I've got you pegged
as a Gin man. Am I
right?
DON:
Whiskey.
CHRIS:
Ooh. That's a manly
drink for someone letting his date
buy for him.
| 