tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44450936450938605432024-03-05T09:43:10.149-05:00the careless perfection of natureThis blog is a pursuit of a natural voice.
It begins with everyday speech--and the voices of recollection and inner monologue--and strives to transform these conversations into art.
-Alan AbramsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-11256497206139426272010-09-16T12:37:00.000-04:002010-09-16T12:37:04.974-04:00Limits of Disturbance, Continued[when we left Terry, he had finished unloading a truckload of sheetrock in the rain. Action picks up later in the day... This segment takes things to the edge of the climax - AA ]<br />
<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - EVENING<br />
<br />
Again we see the TV in the foreground, with TERRY on the couch. He is wearing nothing but boxer shorts, and has a towel around his shoulders. His hair is damp.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF LITTLE BILL<br />
<br />
I says, "You'll want to give over your pistol."<br />
<br />
TERRY drains a can of Old Milwaukee; as he sets down the empty, the camera pans down and we see numerous empties on the cable-spool coffee table.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF MUNNY<br />
<br />
Uh, no. No, I ain't drunk.<br />
<br />
TERRY gets up and rubs his back, and walks out of sight. The sequence on the screen continues. In a moment TERRY returns with another six on a plastic yoke. He sits down and winces.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF LITTLE BILL<br />
<br />
Mister Beauchamp, this here is the sort of trash I was speakin' of.<br />
<br />
He adjusts a pillow behind his back, and grimacing, picks up another can and pulls the tab. The view reverses; we now see the TV screen, where Little Bill is kicking the bejeezus out of Munny, who crawls on his hands and knees out of the bar, into the rainy, muddy street...<br />
<br />
Again the view reverses; we see TERRY's eyes closing. The open beercan is still in his hand, supported by the arm of the couch. His head falls forward...<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - MORNING<br />
<br />
Grey light filters in the room. Rain is lightly spattering on the window. Blue text flickers on the TV screen. TERRY is motionless, in the same position, beercan still in his hand. Is he dead?<br />
<br />
Then, without budging, TERRY's eyes open.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Uhhhhnnggghh.<br />
<br />
He finally moves his head to look at the beercan.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Ahhhhh... fuck!<br />
<br />
TERRY turns sets down the can on the spool and slowly sits up at the edge of the couch. He becomes aware of the sound of the rain. <br />
<br />
Then TERRY leans forward to retrieve a pair of jeans lying on the floor. As he bends, we hear a little POP...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
AUUCCK!<br />
<br />
TERRY crumples in agony onto the floor. He tries to rise but fails. Slowly he creeps and slithers to the bathroom, pulling himself along with his arms and elbow.<br />
<br />
He reaches the edge of the bathtub and manages to turn on the shower. Steam rises and water spatters on the floor.<br />
<br />
TERRY struggles and manages to throw a knee over the egde of the tub, and rolls in. Finally, he rises to his knees and pulls down his shorts. The hot water pounds on his lower back. He remains there, taking long, deep breaths...<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - MORNING (MOMENTS LATER)<br />
<br />
TERRY is wearing only jeans. His hair and beard are glistening wet, beads of water remain on his shoulders. He is almost bent over double as he speaks.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(into cell phone)<br />
<br />
Boss, I can't make it this morning... It's my back, I can hardly stand up... No, I delivered it yesterday; I think that's when I hurt my back... Workers' Comp? No, I hadn't thought about it... Ok... OK... I won't claim it... Just give me the day, I'll try to make it in tomorrow... Thanks, Boss.<br />
<br />
TERRY hobbles into the bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. He pulls out a bottle.<br />
<br />
(closeup of bottle)<br />
<br />
"TAKE ONE TABLET ORALLY EVERY SIX HOURS/ACETAMINOPHEN/CODEINE 30MG TAB"<br />
<br />
TERRY empties the bottle. Three tablets roll into his hand. He tosses them in his mouth; then walks over to the couch and washes down the tablets with the open can of beer.<br />
<br />
Then he sits down on the couch and adjusts the pillow. He looks down and sees LISA's card. He picks it up and reads it.<br />
<br />
(closeup of card)<br />
<br />
"LISA LOCKE/THERAPEUTIC MASSAGE/A Nurturing Blend of Swedish Massage, Caring Touch,/Deep Tissue Massage, and Intuitive Energy Work/240-568-4224"<br />
<br />
TERRY puts the card down and turns back on the TV. He scrolls back to where he left off last night.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF LITTLE BILL<br />
<br />
If they was just here for the fuckin', how come they lit out the back window?<br />
<br />
VOICE OF ALICE<br />
<br />
On account of they seen you was beatin' on their friend.<br />
<br />
TERRY switches off the sound and retrieves the card. He dials the number on his cell phone.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(into cell phone)<br />
<br />
Lisa... Hi, Lisa, this is Terry... Terry, Terry Wolfe... You know, the guy in the co-op... yeah, with the red beard, that's me... Pretty good, how about you?... Actually, I'm not doing so hot; I really racked my back... Unloading some sheetrock... Yeah, you ain't kidding it's heavy... I dunno, I guess so... Sure, five o'clock... 8104 Roanoke Drive... yeah, I think so... OK, thanks, I really appreciate it... Yeah, it'll be nice to see you again, too... No, I'll be there at five sharp, I understand... So long.<br />
<br />
TERRY switches back on the sound, and downs the rest of the beer.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF NED<br />
<br />
Hold him, dammit.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF THE KID<br />
<br />
Jesus. (pause) You done this before?<br />
<br />
TERRY nods out with the remote in his hand.<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
Raking sun comes through the blinds, shining on sleeping TERRY. He wakes with a start and looks at his watch.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Holy shit!<br />
<br />
TERRY, still in pain, struggles to pull a T-shirt over his head. He slips on some flip flops and leaves the apartment.<br />
<br />
EXT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
TERRY walks up to his truck and gets in.<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S TRUCK - AFTERNOON (TRAVELING)<br />
<br />
TERRY struggles with the clutch. He gives up; kills the engine and shifts into low. Then he turns the key--the ancient truck has no lockout--the truck moves forward on the starter motor and then the engine engages. As the truck advances, TERRY slams it into high gear without clutching--gears grind horrendously.<br />
<br />
EXT. SUBURBAN STREET - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
TERRY's truck lurches through a stop sign, horrible grinding sounds are heard as the truck passes by.<br />
<br />
EXT. LISA's HOME - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
TERRY pulls up to a bungalow on a tree lined street. He gets out and approaches the house--the lead walk is blocked by recycling containers and other detritus, so he walks along the driveway. <br />
<br />
From the neighbor's yard a huge dog lunges at him, placing its front paws on the top of a fence and barking ferociously. TERRY turns toward the dog.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hey baby, be cool now.<br />
<br />
The dog pauses, then continues to bark. Terry extends a hand.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hey babe, it's cool, just be cool.<br />
<br />
The dog pauses, then snaps at his hand. TERRY withdraws it just in time.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Comeon, babe, let's be cool. Reaalll cooool.<br />
<br />
TERRY extends his hand again. This time the dog lets TERRY pet its head.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Thaaat's a good dog, oooo yeah, so cool now, yeaahhhh.<br />
<br />
The dog makes a squealing sound. TERRY continues up the driveway, and hobbles up the porch steps.<br />
<br />
The porch is strewn with children's toys and tricycles. The front door is open; TERRY peers in and knocks. The YOUNG MAN walks out and meets TERRY on the porch; he is wearing a loosened tie and an ID tag on a chain. Inside is a YOUNG WOMAN holding an infant.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hi, uh, sorry to interrupt, I, uh, have an appointment with Lisa... but maybe I have the wrong...<br />
<br />
YOUNG MAN<br />
<br />
No, you're at the right house; Lisa's around back. There's a path along the left--but watch out for the neighbor's dog--it's viscious.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Thanks, sorry to bother you.<br />
<br />
TERRY descends the steps.<br />
<br />
YOUNG WOMAN (o.s.)<br />
<br />
Charles, you have to speak to Lisa about her clients coming to the front.<br />
<br />
YOUNG MAN<br />
<br />
(going back inside)<br />
<br />
Darling, I've told her a hundred...<br />
<br />
TERRY walks around the side of the house. The dog trots along the fence, whimpering. TERRY then turns the corner and finds a set of concrete steps leading a half flight down to a basement door. There is a sundeck above the steps. A cat is sunning on the wall beside the steps.<br />
<br />
TERRY walks down the steps and raises his knuckles to knock, but LISA opens the door first. LISA walks out and confronts him in the small space.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hi, Lisa...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Do you realize what time it is?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Uh, I know I'm late, I'm so sorry...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It's nearly six! I told you we're drumming tonight at the peace vigil; I've got to be downtown at seven. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I know, you did tell me... I took some pain pills and fell asleep...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, too, Terry, but I have obligations. There's just not enought time to do anything for you now. I really should charge you for a no-show...<br />
<br />
TERRY winces again and his knee flexes. He clutches his lower back.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Unnnhhh.<br />
<br />
Lisa<br />
<br />
Oh dear. Turn around.<br />
<br />
TERRY turns away from her. LISA pulls up his shirt and runs her hand up and down each side of his spine. When her hand touches the small of his back, TERRY tenses slightly.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Ooooo.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It's right here, I feel the heat.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes, sometimes it's like an electric shock... I see a flash of light...<br />
<br />
LISA rubs the spot slowly.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It's your sacro. It's in total spasm. Come in, let's get you up on the table.<br />
<br />
LISA opens the door for TERRY who squeezes past her. At the last second, the cat jumps off the wall and skitters in between their feett.<br />
<br />
INT. LISA'S HOME - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
LISA leads TERRY through a small kitchen, then through a bedroom decorated with printed fabrics and lots of candles. TERRY has to dodge a painted paper umbrella, hung upside down from the ceiling as a light shade. <br />
<br />
Finally they reach a small room with a massage table. There is a high silled window at one end, and on the adjacent wall, a small stand with a boom box, some CD's, and some bottles of oil. <br />
<br />
On the wall opposite the window is a poster of a blue skinned man and woman in a fanciful costume, with a bare midriff. The figures are flying on the back of a half-man, half-bird creature.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
OK, you need to get undressed. Everything. I'm going to start on your ventral, so you need to lie on your back. Are you going to need help?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Uh, no thanks, I think I can manage.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Good. Just pull this sheet over you when you lay down. I'll give you a couple of minutes.<br />
<br />
LISA leaves and draws a curtain across the door. Examining the poster, TERRY undresses and lays down. He looks up at the bare joists.<br />
<br />
LISA (O.S.)<br />
<br />
Are you ready?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
OK.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, he remembers the sheet and pulls it over himself. LISA enters with a glass of water. <br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
OK, comfy?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes, very... Thanks so much for doing this...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Never mind; I couldn't send you off like that... Now drink this water; it will help to flush the toxins away.<br />
<br />
TERRY takes a drink from the glass and looks for a place to set it aside.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
No, you need to finish it.<br />
<br />
TERRY silently obeys. Lisa takes the glass and sets it on the table.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
That's better. You let me know if you need some more. Now then, do you mind if I put on some music?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh, sure. Please do.<br />
<br />
LISA puts a CD in the boombox. TERRY can just make out LISA's legs through her gauzy pants, silhouetted by light from the window. The music starts with slow, shimmering runs on the sitar.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I hope you like ragas. They help me to listen to your body.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sure, no problem.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
For these sacros, I like to start at the top and work down... get everything around the crisis region as relaxed as possible, before dealing with it.<br />
<br />
LISA begins to massage TERRY's scalp and temples. TERRY looks up and notices thick black hair in LISA's armpits, and the outline of her breasts against her tight, thin sleeveless shell.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It's good to have a plan, I guess.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I do start with a strategy, generally, you know, but then I let my hands tell me exactly what to do. Now you just concentrate on your breathing, and try to relax. Imagine the toxins, draining out of your muscles, into your bloodstream.<br />
<br />
LISA continues the massage, first working oil into his shoulders and arms, then kneading and pulling in slow, strong motions. TERRY is mezmerized by her breasts, changing shape as she works over him. Then LISA notices a bump on his collar bone.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
That must have hurt.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I guess. I was high at the time. Riding my bike and hit a patch of wet leaves. Going way too fast, as usual.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I like bicycling. I wish I didn't need my car.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I had to bicycle because my license was suspended. I haven’t ridden much since they reinstated it, though. Maybe I should take it up again and break the other collar bone. The shoulder on the broken side doesn’t stick out near as far as my good shoulder. It makes me look deformed.<br />
<br />
LISA closes her eyes and continues.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
You... have a beautiful body.<br />
<br />
The raga builds in intensity. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I like... I like your body, too.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
OK, I need you to turn over. Let’s get to work on this knot.<br />
<br />
TERRY turns over, keeping the sheet above his waist. As he turns, he fixes again on the figures on the poster. LISA continues with the massage. <br />
<br />
Now watching LISA's bare feet, he sees the cat come in and rub against her legs.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
(FLASHBACK) INT. YOUNG TERRY'S CAR - NIGHT<br />
<br />
TERRY and CORTNEY laugh together. Then they pause.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
"If she slight me, when I woo,/ I can scorn and let her go"...<br />
<br />
Cortney frowns and pulls away.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry... I didn't mean it.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
(scowling)<br />
<br />
Good grief, Terry, you're such a mope.<br />
<br />
Suddenly Cortney's face lights up. <br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Why don't you find somewhere to park?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
You mean here?<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Yeah, here, why not?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I dunno, Cortney, I guess cause...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
(with a devilish look)<br />
'Cause I got something you might like.<br />
<br />
Terry turns toward her, frowning. Cortney pulls an Altoids tin from her purse and opens it, and shows him the contents. The tin holds several generous joints and some strike anywhere matches. Terry's eyes light up.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wow, Where'd you get those? I haven't seen any of that stuff since tenth grade.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Omigod, Terry, where have you been keeping yourself, under some rock?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Obviously!<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, Terry, you know what I mean. Come on, let's pull over. Look, up ahead.<br />
<br />
She points ahead to a turnoff. Terry pulls into the parking area. A sign reads "NO PARKING AFTER SUNSET."<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Uh-oh. We better go.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Don't worry, nothing's going to happen.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I dunno about this. My old man would kill me if his car gets towed.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Terry! You're such a stick in the mud. Come with me--I think I know a place we can go.<br />
<br />
Cortney leans over and kisses Terry on the cheek, and slips the Altoid tin in his shirt pocket. Then she gets out of the car and, illuminated by the headlights, gestures to Terry.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hey! Wait up!<br />
<br />
Cortney dashes off toward a gap in the trees, and turns toward Terry.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Yo, slowpoke! Follow me!<br />
<br />
Terry jogs after her. Cortney pauses and takes his hand, and leads him into the woods.<br />
<br />
Cortney skips and bounds down the path, laughing, while holding Terry's hand. She reaches the bank and stops shortly, grabs his hand with both of hers and swings Terry toward the creek. He stuttersteps toward the creek and regains his balance by pulling her toward him, until they are almost embracing, tottering at the bank.<br />
<br />
Breaking away, Cortney shrieks with laughter and tiptoes out onto some rocks in the creek. Once again she takes Terry's hand and leads him along.<br />
<br />
They go maybe halfway across and find there are no more rocks within reach.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Oh dear. Well, I think there's a bridge somewhere. Let's go back.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(blocking her path)<br />
<br />
No way, not now!<br />
<br />
Terry scoops Cortney up in his arms, effortlessly, like he would lift a child. Then, carrying her, he plunges into the water, almost up to his crotch. Cortney kicks her legs up, slinging arcs of water, and squeals with delight, hugging him tightly around his neck.<br />
<br />
They reach the other side, a sandy spot, sort of a nook defined by boulders and vegetation. The moon illuminates the two figures. <br />
<br />
Terry sets her down gently. Cortney, viewed from behind, keeps her arms around his neck, and Terry, somewhat gingerly, holds her, just touching lightly her on the shoulders. She leans into him and kisses him, and backs away.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Terry, I take back what I said about being a stick in the mud. Do you forgive me?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I guess so--I mean no--I mean I was sorta agreeing with you.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Oh Terry! You're too much. Hey, fire up a number. It'll help get your head out of your butt.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wow. I really mean it, I haven't done any pot since I was 15.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Oh come on. I'm tellin' ya, this is some nice stuff.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
OK, no problem. I can handle it.<br />
<br />
Terry takes the tin from his pocket and removes a joint and a match. He puts the joint in his mouth and strikes the match against the boulder, and lights up. When he gets it going, he passes it to Cortney.<br />
<br />
Cortney takes a dainty hit, with the sound of air hissing between her lips. She smiles and passes it back.<br />
<br />
Terry takes a long deep hit and holds it in. His eyes are scrunched shut and his cheeks bulge. Then he leans his head back and lets it out slowly, issuing a long stream of smoke.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wooo-oooohhh!<br />
<br />
They pass the joint back and forth a few times, giggling.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh man, that went straight to my head.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Me too. Feelin' a little better?<br />
<br />
Terry does not reply. He sets the roach on the boulder and faces her. This time he initiates an embrace, and they kiss again.<br />
<br />
Cortney pulls back a little and smartly pulls her t-shirt over her head, and drops it. She shakes out her hair, and reaching back, unsnaps her bra, and lets it fall away. She is still facing away, towards Terry, but her back is shapely and alluring.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(shuddering ever so slightly)<br />
You are so beautiful.<br />
<br />
Cortney smiles and unbuttons his shirt. Terry slips it off and sets it on the boulder. His eyes are fixed on her as he picks up the roach and takes another hit. They kiss again, languidly, completely absorbed in one another.<br />
<br />
Terry and Cortney are kissing tenderly. Cortney still faces away. Terry's hands caress her back, and slowly move down the sides of her thighs.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
(breathlessly)<br />
<br />
Oh, Terry!<br />
<br />
Pulling back, but still in his arms, CORTNEY fumbles with the snap of her jeans for a moment, and they fall away.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(whispers)<br />
<br />
Oh my.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Take me!<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. LISA'S HOME - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
The music has stopped. Lisa is rubbing Terry's back in long, slow strokes. At the last stroke she pauses with her hands on his shoulders.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
OK now. How do you feel?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(stirring)<br />
<br />
Oh my. I feel great. Am I still in the same body?<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
(chuckling)<br />
<br />
Oh yes, I'm quite sure of that. But it seemed to me, you may have left it for a while.<br />
<br />
Lisa steps away and wipes her hands on a towel. Terry begins to rise.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
No, don't get up yet. Take a moment to relax. <br />
<br />
Terry settles back down.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I'd love to know where you went.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'd love to show you... sometime. Hey, I better get going. You have a gig tonight, right?<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It's too late now. I've been working on you for...<br />
<br />
(glances at her watch)<br />
<br />
nearly two hours.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
No way!<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It took over an hour just to get you to loosen up. I can't really do much good until your muscles release, you know. Now you rest for a few more minutes before you get dressed. <br />
<br />
Lisa leaves the room. Terry stares at the poster again.<br />
<br />
CUT<br />
<br />
INT. LISA'S KITCHEN - NIGHT<br />
<br />
Lisa sets a pitcher of water and two glasses on the little table. The cat is on the floor observing as Terry walks in.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Why don't you sit down?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sure, OK.<br />
<br />
Terry sits in one of the two chairs. Lisa pours water in the glasses. Their eyes meet; Lisa smiles warmly at Terry.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It's really important to take fluids after a massage. It takes a lot to flush the toxins, and you were so full of stress. <br />
<br />
Lisa hands Terry a glass and sits down at<br />
<br />
his right side. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Thanks!<br />
<br />
Terry bolts down the better part of the glass. Lisa refills it.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Here, have some more.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wow, I had no idea how thirsty I was.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I'm not surprised, Terry. You're functioning at the edge of dehydration...<br />
<br />
Terry, sitting sideways to the table, with his feet stretched out to his left, glances at the cat. Lisa notices and pauses, and then resumes.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
... It leaves you vulnerable to injuries like this, Terry... don't you see...<br />
<br />
The cat leaps into Terry's lap. Lisa pauses again. Without looking at the cat, Terry strokes its head and back. The cat arches, and then snuggles contentedly in his lap.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
... Terry...<br />
<br />
Terry looks at her expectantly. He continues to stroke the cat.<br />
<br />
Lisa<br />
<br />
...Terry... would you... would you like to... kiss me?<br />
<br />
Terry's eyes lock on Lisa's; his lips part. He stops stroking and kneads the neck of the cat with his thumb and forefinger.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes... yes I would.<br />
<br />
Lisa leans toward Terry, and then Terry leans towards her. She places her hands on the sides of his face, and they kiss for a moment. Then she pulls back.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
(returning to initial character)<br />
<br />
Why don't you have some more water?<br />
<br />
Terry takes another sip and puts the glass down. Then he reaches to Lisa, and strokes her neck, lifting her hair, and letting it fall away. He leans toward her again, but she does not lean.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I... I don't know... <br />
<br />
He leans even farther and kisses her again. Finally Lisa begins to respond. Terry slides his right hand down her shoulder and arm, and places it on her thigh. Her legs part slightly. Their kissing becomes passionate.<br />
<br />
Terry shifts in his chair to reach farther up her thigh, and the cat leaps to the floor. Thu-thump! <br />
<br />
Lisa pulls away abruptly. She is flushed.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
You have to go now.<br />
<br />
Terry pulls back, breathing fast.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I... I... I'm sorry, I thought...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
No, you have to go.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(rising) <br />
<br />
I... OK... How much do I owe...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
(stands up)<br />
<br />
Please... go!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(reaching for his wallet)<br />
<br />
OK, I'm leaving, but just let me pay you...<br />
<br />
Terry backs away and knocks his chair over with a crash.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
(loudly, at the edge of hysteria)<br />
<br />
Just... go!<br />
<br />
Terry turns and goes out the door.<br />
<br />
EXT. LISA's HOME - NIGHT<br />
<br />
The door slams behind Terry. A spotlight goes on from the deck above. The Young Man leans over the deck as Terry passes by. The Young Woman quickly appears behind him. Lisa's kitchen light goes out; sobbing is heard through her window.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(to the Young Man)<br />
<br />
Nothing happened! Nothing!<br />
<br />
As Terry passes along the fence, the large dog moves along side, barking furiously, as Terry passes out of sight.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
EXT. THE VIDEO STORE - DAY<br />
<br />
Terry parks his truck in a metered space. He puts a quarter in the meter, but the meter doesn't work. He hits it repeatedly, harder and harder. He gives up and enters.<br />
<br />
INT. THE VIDEO STORE - DAY<br />
<br />
Terry walks to the counter with some returns. Donna is focused on some paper work.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hey, Donnawanna, what's up?<br />
<br />
Terry hands her the discs--without looking up, she takes them and puts them in a bin. Finally she looks up at him.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
What's up? Not much, buckaroo... damn sure not my revenue. I am grateful to you... if it weren't for the late fees you ring up, I couldn't pay the rent this month.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
That's tough. Everyone's hurting... my boss had to lay off two carpenters... good guys, too.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
And he kept you?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(laughs) <br />
<br />
Yeah, weird, isn't it. Last weekend the old man took me golfing. Why me?<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Maybe he's after your body.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I hardly think so! He's got like a wife and three daughters.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
That doesn't mean anything. You better watch it around that man... don't let him sneak up behind you.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Aw, Donna, gimme a break. Besides, I'm saving myself for you.<br />
<br />
Donna makes a disgusted face and returns to her paperwork. Terry wanders back between the shelves. Donna's cell phone rings, and Terry, out of sight, listens in.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
(into phone)<br />
<br />
Hiiiii... you bet... I lock up at nine... OK, out front... you know I do... byebye.<br />
<br />
Terry pulls a box off a shelf and brings it to the counter.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
"Million Dollar Baby." Your taste is improving. I like women who can kick ass.<br />
<br />
Donna writes up the rental.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
So, you are sorta seeing someone.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
What?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
That phone call.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
What's it to you?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Nothing. But I am glad you're not just blowing me off...<br />
<br />
(beat)<br />
<br />
are you?<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Terry, let's not go there...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Just give me hope...<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
I hope you put a dime in the meter.<br />
<br />
Terry looks over his shoulder out the window and sees the meter maid walking across the street. He reaches for the discs. Donna places a hand over his hand.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Terry, I think you're a really nice person... and kinda handsome, behind that weed patch. But...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It's OK, Donna, I understand...<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
I don't think you do... Hey! You better beat it, she's headed for your truck.<br />
<br />
Terry spins around and dashes out the door.<br />
<br />
CUT<br />
<br />
INT. SAVANNAH CONTRACTING - DAY<br />
<br />
Terry pauses outside the Old Man's office.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(into phone)<br />
<br />
So, me and Ben took the wives out to Lakewood Sunday... no kidding... no, just nine holes... yee-ass, just as bad as you could imagine... they way they tore up the teeing grounds, I thought the groundsman was gonna kick us the hell off the course... look, I gotta call you back.<br />
<br />
(to Terry)<br />
<br />
Good afternoon, sir.<br />
<br />
Terry puts some papers on the desk with a flourish.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Time cards... aaand...<br />
<br />
(with another flourish)<br />
<br />
...a final invoice from Carlos.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Carlos? He's finished already?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Skimmed, sanded, and pointed up. Came out nice and crisp.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
That's what I like to hear. That job is rolling right along. By the way, you seen Robin lately?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Funny you mention it... I haven't seen her all week.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Good, good. The less you see of her... Oh! That reminds me...<br />
<br />
The Old Man fishes around on his desk and retrieves a small envelope.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(reading)<br />
<br />
"To Terry, Namaste. Lisa." I found it slipped under the door. What the hell is namaste?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I dunno, boss. Guess I'll have to look it up.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
You do that. I hope it means, I wanna get laid.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(embarrassed) <br />
<br />
Thanks for the sentiment. I better get back and start hanging some cabinets.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Alright, hoss. Keep up the good work.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - EVENING<br />
<br />
Terry is on the couch. A laptop is open on the spool table. He dials his cell phone.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(into phone)<br />
<br />
From the spirit in me, to the spirit in you... Yeah, it's me... No, I had to google it... Me? No, I'm not angry. A little confused, maybe... No, please don't apologize... The back feels great! Whatever you did worked like a champ... Uh huh... Uh huh... I understand, it would be good to talk about it... Friday evening, ha ha, no plans... Sure, that sounds great... OK then... Namaste to you too.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
(FLASHBACK) INT. YOUNG TERRY'S CAR - NIGHT<br />
<br />
Terry and Cortney are in the back seat steaming up the windows. Terry starts to unbutton Cortney's blouse.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
No, please, not tonight.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It's OK. This time I'm prepared.<br />
<br />
Terry pulls a condom out of his pocket. Then he tries to start up again.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
No, Terry, it's too late.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
But it's only eleven. I don't have to get you back until midnight.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
No, I mean it really is too late.<br />
<br />
Terry pulls back. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
You mean...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
I'm pregnant.<br />
<br />
Tears begin to trickle.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
You're sure.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
I'm three weeks late, and I'm never late.<br />
<br />
Terry pulls her close and tries to kiss her. She jerks away her face.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I love you...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Please don't say that!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I can't help it, when I'm around you I...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Terry, stop! You're only making this worse.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It's OK, everything's going to work out. You'll be a great mother!<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
No, no! Don't you understand, I don't want to be a mother.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
What are you saying? You mean you'd have an...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Terry, I said it's too late. I've talked this over with my parents, and they're going to help me... get rid...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Please don't say it. I'll do whatever it takes. I'll stand by you. We could get married...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
That's ridiculous. You've got that scholarship... what about your dream of being an architect? Are you going to throw that away?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Well, maybe I could study around here. At night. I could get a job.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
But what about me, I'd like to go to college, too.<br />
<br />
Terry sets his jaw. A tear spills out of his eye.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
We could live with my parents, and save some money...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Auuughhh! Terry, I'm too young for this. You're too young. And I couldn't stand living in your parents stupid rec room... ugghhh! Anyway, it's already decided.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I just can't believe you'd do it. I mean, end it... just like that.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
(starting to cry)<br />
<br />
Terry, please don't make it harder than it already is. Don't you think I hate myself enough already, for letting this happen, for what I have to do... If you want to stand by me, than stand by me through this.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry. That was unfair. It's just that... there's a little tiny bit... of you... and me... inside you. Maybe she'll have your eyes...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
And how do you know it's a girl... sheesh!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Well, what if it was? And what if... what if it did have your big blue eyes? They're so pretty.<br />
<br />
Cortney breaks into tears and hugs Terry. Terry is getting weepy, too.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
And your curly red hair... Oh, Terry, I can't go though with this... having a baby. What should I do? I haven't even lived yet. What should I do, Terry?<br />
<br />
Cortney slumps into Terry's arms; Terry rocks her gently as she quietly sobs.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Please tell me, what should I do?<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S MOTHER'S HOUSE - NIGHT<br />
<br />
Terry is sitting on the couch watching an Orioles game. On the coffee table is a tray with his dirty dinner dish, and a can of Natty Bo. Terry's Mother enters carrying a basket of neatly folded laundry, and sets it down by the door.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
All clean, sweetie. Except for your khaki shirt... there was some kind of goo on it...<br />
<br />
Crowd noise rises from the TV. <br />
<br />
TV ANNOUNCER (from tv set)<br />
<br />
It's a hard hit liner down the right base line, if it's fair she's outta here... foullll... ball!<br />
<br />
Terry leans forward to follow the action, ignoring his mother. She pauses for a moment, until the play is over.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
...I hit it with Shout Out, but it still wouldn't come...<br />
<br />
Terry picks up the beer can, shakes it, and tips it way back, then sets it down--it is empty.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
Sweetie, can I get you another one?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sure, Ma.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
Terry, you said you’d take care of that toilet down there. I got tired of jiggling the handle, so I finally just shut the valve. But sometimes I need it...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I will, Ma. I just keep forgetting to bring over the part.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
I'm sorry to bother you with things like that. Your father used to take care of everything, and now...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
For chrissake, Ma, I said I'd take care of it.<br />
<br />
(beat)<br />
<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
Terry, did you get enough to eat? There's more pork chops...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
No more, Ma, I'm stuffed.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
I'll wrap some up for you...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Aw, Ma, it'll just sit in the fridge until it gets moldy, and then I'll throw it out.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
I'll get your beer. Oh, and I found this in your pocket. <br />
<br />
She pulls out the letter from Lisa.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
Who's Lisa?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Just some girl.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
Is she nice?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sorta. Are there any more nachos?<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
What about Cortney? I thought you two were working things out.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Aw, Ma...<br />
<br />
The game goes to a break. Terry surfs some more games.<br />
<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
Terry, you were crazy about that girl... but you were so young. Maybe your father was right about her... Well I hope it works out with this Lisa person. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yeah.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
Terry, bring over Juniper sometime. I never get to see her. You have her on weekends, right?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Every other, Ma, every other.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
Please, Terry.<br />
<br />
Terry surfs some more stations.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
OK, Ma, I will, I promise. Real soon.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S MOTHER<br />
<br />
And don't forget that part, OK?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
OK, Ma, I won't forget...<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - AFERNOON<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(into phone)<br />
<br />
Lisa, hi, it’s Terry.<br />
<br />
LISA-on phone<br />
<br />
Oh, hi Terry. How are you? Are we still on for tonight?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh yeah—but I can’t pick you up this evening. I left some construction adhesive on the seat of my truck, you know, in those big tubes, and I parked in the sun this afternoon. The cab got so hot that some of the tubes burst, and there’s this smelly crud all over the seat.<br />
<br />
LISA-ON PHONE<br />
<br />
Oooohh, sorry about your truck. I’m working at the coop this afternoon--why don’t I pick you up after I get off, and I can drive us to the restaurant.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hey, that's a great idea. I'm looking forward to this.<br />
<br />
LISA-ON PHONE<br />
<br />
Me, too. I'm done with appointments at four. So I'll pick you up at four thirty--we can get the early bird special--it's half price.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
OK then, see you at four thirty. I promise I won’t be late this time. But just in case, give me your cell number.<br />
<br />
LISA-ON PHONE<br />
<br />
Terry, I don't have a cell phone. Please just be on time.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
No problem, I'll be ready. See ya soon.<br />
<br />
LISA-ON PHONE<br />
<br />
See ya, byebye.<br />
<br />
CUT<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
Terry, with wet hair, is getting dressed, checking himself in a mirror. He pulls a battered tweed jacket with leather elbow patches out of his closet and tries it on.<br />
<br />
The jacket is a little too large for him, and he fidgets trying to make it hang better. He starts to take it off, and then puts it back on again.<br />
<br />
Staring into the mirror, he spaces out...<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
FLASHBACK INT. A DINGY PUB - NIGHT<br />
<br />
Young Terry and TERRY'S FATHER are seated at a booth. Terry's Father, a heavy set guy, wears the tweed jacket.<br />
<br />
A waitress arrives with their order.<br />
<br />
WAITRESS<br />
<br />
Taco salad, cheeseburger plate, well. Two Bo's.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Thanks, babe.<br />
<br />
Terry's father starts wolfing the cheeseburger.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
(while chewing)<br />
<br />
What's with them Birds? They can't get out of their own way.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I dunno, I haven't been paying attention lately.<br />
<br />
Terry's father slugs down about half his mug.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Never shoulda left Memorial Stadium. They had a team back then... Palmer, Murray, Ripkin...<br />
<br />
He stuffs a big wad of fries in next.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Oughta bring back Earl Weaver, that's what they oughta do.<br />
<br />
Terry is just picking at his salad. Terry's father drains his mug. The waitress comes by.<br />
<br />
WAITRESS<br />
<br />
How is everything?<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Nuther beer, sweetheart. You, Terry?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
We're going through with it.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
What?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Cortney's going to have the baby.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Terry, I thought that was settled.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I know, Dad, but we're going to go through with it.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
What do you mean, we? You're not going to do something stupid, are you?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Dad, I promised her I would stand by her...<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
God dammit, Terry, you're making a bad decision...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Well, it's my decision... our decision.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
But you still have time, Terry. Think it over.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
No!<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Then let her have the goddam baby. Stay the fuck out of it. We'll settle this up, and you can go on with to Auburn.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
No, I can't...<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Yes you can! Don't make the same dumb ass mistake I made.<br />
<br />
The waitress brings another mug. Terry's father takes a long drink.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Jesus, Terry, when I got back from Nam and met your mother, and let all that GI money go to waste... just for a regular piece of ass...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Dad, stop!<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Son, think it over.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(quietly)<br />
<br />
Dad, it's too late. We got married this morning.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
You stupid fool. You stupid goddam fool!<br />
<br />
Terry stands abruptly, knocking over his father's beer.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Fuck you, old man! I never want to see you again!<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Terry, wait, I didn't mean...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Just fuck you! Just fucking drop dead!<br />
<br />
Terry turns and stomps away.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Terry, wait...<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
Terry, in the sport jacket, is holding a picture of his father as a skinny young soldier--helmet, flak jacket, no shirt.<br />
<br />
EXT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
A faded Mercedes diesel station wagon pulls up in front and struggles to parallel park--first cutting too hard and almost running over the curb; then pulling out and in again, and stopping two feet away from the curb.<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
Terry looks at his watch and starts.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Dag!<br />
<br />
Terry hastily grabs his wallet, keys, and cell phone and dumps them in the side pocket of the jacket. Then he dashes out the door.<br />
<br />
EXT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
Terry emerges from the building just as Lisa starts to get out of the car. She turns and waves over the top of the car. Terry jogs up, Lisa gets in, and unlatches the door. Terry leans in.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hi, Lisa, nice to see you again.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Nice to see you, too. Hop in.<br />
<br />
Terry gets in.<br />
<br />
INT. LISA'S CAR - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Thanks for picking me up.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
No problem. I’m glad to do it. I hope your truck will be ok.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(laughing)<br />
<br />
It’s not a big deal. The seat was shot anyway. I’ll just get a cover for it.<br />
<br />
Lisa swings sideways, drawing her right knee up toward Terry. It pulls up the hem of her dress, revealing the entirety of her thigh. Terry notices, but tries not to stare.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Terry...<br />
<br />
Terry begins to speak, but Lisa continues.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Terry, I’m so sorry for losing my cool that night. I just got scared.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Of me?<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I don’t know. Maybe... maybe I was afraid of myself. But I’m not, now.<br />
<br />
She draws closer to him; the dress riding even higher, hiding nothing now. Then, with her eyes closed, she places her hands on his temples, fingers spread wide, and lets them flow down over the contours of his face, slowly, gently, in a continuous gesture that ends with two fingers stroking his lips. Then she swings back behind the wheel.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
We better get going, or we’ll miss the early bird. Are you getting hungry?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
You bet! I sure am.<br />
<br />
Lisa pulls the car out into traffic. The diesel engine clatters.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hey, great car.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Oh, this is Steely.<br />
<br />
Lisa pats the dashboard affectionately.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Steely? Hi Steely, pleased to meetcha.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I love this car. It belonged to an old man I knew... a client. I do some geriatric work, you know. He’d call me once a week for a massage, and when I’d visit, he’d come out and help me wrestle my table out of the back seat of the car... I had one of those eensie little Civics, you know. He was such a nice man, tall and trim—you could even say handsome, in that old man sort of way.<br />
<br />
Lisa pauses. Terry is quiet, watching her intently.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Then he got cancer. It spread so fast—soon he was just wasting away. Still he kept calling me. I’d do what I could do... which really wasn’t really much... it seemed like his elbows would tear right through his skin. At the end, he just wanted me to sit and hold his hand.<br />
<br />
Lisa wipes a tear.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
After he died, I got a call from his daughter. He’d left me his car. She told me he thought it make it easier for me to carry my table around in it.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Some guy, huh.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Frederick Steele. That was his name. That’s why I call him Steely.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Steely.<br />
<br />
Terry rolls down his window.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sure is hot. I'm ready for fall.<br />
<br />
Terry wriggles out of the sport jacket and places it on the back seat. Then he gazes out the window.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
FLASHBACK INT. A NURSING HOME - DAY<br />
<br />
Terry's father is in a hospital bed. Terry enters carrying an infant.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hi, Dad, how's it going?<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Ho! What's that you got there?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
This is Juniper. She's one month old.<br />
<br />
Terry holds the infant so his father can see her.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Junipie, say hello to your grandad.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Juniper. What in the fuck kind of name is that?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(to the infant)<br />
<br />
Don't pay any mind, Junie. The old fart still doesn't know how to act around women.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Let me hold her, Terry.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
OK, Dad, be careful now.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Don't tell me how to handle a baby. I changed your shitty diapers.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
That's not what Ma says.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Well, maybe I did it once.<br />
<br />
(sings)<br />
<br />
Jennifer, Juniper, la de da de dum... Where's Cortney?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
She had to start back already. They let her switch to the evening shift, so we don't need a sitter during the day.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
So that's it for night school for you.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yeah, for the time being... (beat) Ma says it doesn't look good.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
You got that right. Coupla weeks at best.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, Dad...<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Don't be. In the long run, I'm lucky. Lotta guys I knew never made it much past your age. I just want it to be over quick... and painless.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It all happened so fast...<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
Everything in life happens fast, Terry. Look at you, already a father. Here, take her. I'm getting tired. They're giving me percoset now, lots of it.<br />
<br />
Terry lifts the infant and fusses with it maternally.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
You made one tough choice, kid. I still don't think it was the right one, but it's done now. I hope you can live up to your decision.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'll try, Dad. I will.<br />
<br />
TERRY'S FATHER<br />
<br />
(slurring)<br />
<br />
I know you will. Better go... I'm nodding out...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Goodbye, Dad.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
EXT. THE INDIAN RESTAURANT - EVENING<br />
<br />
(the following, from the original story, is still to be adapted)<br />
<br />
<br />
Finally, they approached the restaurant. There were no parking spaces out front, so they turned onto Bonifant and prowled down the street until they found a spot, all the way down the block. Then they walked back, toward the west, into the evening sun. She put on a pair of huge sunglasses, way too big for her narrow face. He groped for his in his breast pocket, but he’d left them in the jacket. Damn, he muttered to himself. Otherwise, he stayed silent as they walked on, hoping she would find something to say.<br />
<br />
INT. THE INDIAN RESTARAUNT<br />
<br />
<br />
They reached the corner and entered the restaurant. The mix of aromas put him on guard. He paused inside the door, as his sundazzled eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Not noticing that he’d stopped, she continued to an empty table. Loopy chick, all alone in her own world. Then, missing him, she turned. He lurched onward, cutting off a waiter carrying a big tray balanced on his upturned hand. The waiter pirouetted and swung the tray around, tilting it into its arc, to keep from spilling the contents. “I’m sorry,” he said, but the waiter had already scurried around behind him. Across the room, she covered her eyes and shook her head, but he could make out her lips pulling back into a smile.<br />
<br />
<br />
He made his way over and sat down. She smiled at him and shook her head again, like his mother did sometimes. He smiled back, trying to work up a dimple, but he was worried she’d think he was grimacing, so he quit. Please say something. It was a small table, with a candle between them. Even in the dimness he could see some fine wrinkles at the corners of her mouth. But those thighs, oh my. Jesus, just don’t blow it this time. Please say something. Think of something to say, dammit. He gazed around the room. On the wall was a poster, similar to the one in her basement massage room,<br />
<br />
<br />
“What’s with those guys?” he blurted, pointing toward the poster. “You know, the girl and the guy with blue skin, on the back of the big bird. You’ve got those same characters on the wall in your apartment.”<br />
<br />
<br />
“Oh, them. That’s Lakshmi and Vishnu. They’re riding on Garuda. They’re Hindu gods and goddesses.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The same waiter came by and asked for their order. She ordered for him, explaining what everything was, and what it was made from. He said OK to everything, but if you were to have asked him what he was about to get, he would not have been able to repeat a single item. Then she started to tell him about the Hindu pantheon. But it was too much, was Ganesha the man with the elephant’s trunk or the curry with split peas. The food came, and she chattered away, about a yoga retreat in Himalaya she was planning to go to some day. The names of the foods, the gods, the towns and the rivers were tumbling around in his head. The dishes were tastier than he expected, and soon they were finished eating.<br />
<br />
<br />
After the dishes were cleared, she got up and went to the rest room. When she returned, he noticed she had taken the clip from her hair, which now fell free around her shoulders. She sat down again and took his hand, and with her eyes closed, ran the fingers of her other hand up and down the inside of his forearm. A smile formed on her lips. She opened her eyes and asked, “Are you ready to go?”<br />
<br />
<br />
Before he could say yes, the waiter came with the check. She reached for it, but before she could take it, he slammed his hand over it and said, “This one’s mine.” <br />
<br />
<br />
“It’s my treat, really. I invited you.”<br />
<br />
<br />
“But after that massage and all, I’ll get the check…” He smiled his smile again, and this time it worked. She smiled back at him, softly. He reached to his back pocket, but his wallet was not there.<br />
<br />
<br />
“Damn, I’m sorry. I left my wallet in my jacket pocket. It’s in Steely. Hang on, I’ll be back in a flash.”<br />
<br />
“Hey, wait, you’re going to need these.” She fished out her keys from her purse. He took them and dashed out the door.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-11539695074278847052010-09-02T10:43:00.020-04:002010-09-04T07:13:34.539-04:00BENEDICTIONHere's a fragment of a piece I began composing in my head this morning, stuck in a traffic jam...<br />
<br />
(Sep 4--it's no longer a fragment; it's a short--but complete--piece of monologue--AA)<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div align="center" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">BENEDICTION</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The first thing I want to say, is how wonderful it is to talk to you again. It’s been a long time, hasn't it?</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Of course you must be wondering--and marveling--how can I share this with you. It’s really no marvel, it just goes back to that spring morning--after I had abandoned any hope of recovery--the magic bullet, the miracle cure--those miserable, worn out hopes that had sustained me through the long, tedious years of decline--and after I finally let myself say, I want to die--that morning, when David, my oldest son came in to my room to say goodbye.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Not goodbye, father, may you find peace and liberation from your years of suffering. No, it was goodbye, I’m going to California with a woman who is running out on her husband, a woman I slept with once, but who is seeking out her lover, a stoner living in a run down bungalow on the beach in Summerland. Or some such cockamamie bullshit.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">He didn’t explain it so clearly then; it was later that he shared the whole story with me--but what he said was enough for me to get the gist. I replied, but my voice was so weak he could not hear me. So he leaned his ear down, so close to my lips that I could have kissed him; I felt his long curly hair and that horrible beard brush my face. Then, in the faintest whisper, I spoke my last words to him, you're crazy--just like me.<br />
<br />
+ + + +</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
In fact, they were the last words I spoke to anyone, because not long after, a fever took hold, and I began slipping into a coma. Dr. Britt finished examining me, and called my wife into my room. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lisabetta, he said, your husband's condition is grave. He will be gone very soon, perhaps tonight. I could admit him to the hospital and they could drain his lungs and possibly revive him (Oh god, please not again! For god’s sake let me go...), but this will only happen again.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Thank god she let me go. If I had suffered, she had suffered twice as much--this young, voluptuous woman who gave me enemas, this woman with the wideset brown eyes, who irrigated my bladder drain twice a day--thank god she let me go. This woman who turned away my neighbors, my old high school buddies--who thought they could get away with it--this woman who buried her wishes for my death deep inside herself--thank <u>god</u> she let me go.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Enough already. Let’s talk about happy things. My son, he seems to have settled down. He even calls his mother once in a while. He’s making a little money--although he didn’t do so well last year. But he could have made so much more of himself. The opportunities he pissed away. What I could have done with them! So many times I wanted to get up out of my bed and beat him. I mean beat him. Hurt him, like he hurt me.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">If only he’d have found a nice girl, a Jewish girl. Those tramps he used to go with, one after the other. Living together--uuuhhh! What kind of a way to live is that? And that one he married, what did he see in her? She was just as sick as he was. She <u>was</u> built, I’ll hand you that--every bit as nice as Lizzie, from what I could see. </div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"> There <u>were</u> some good ones; that country girl, from <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Virginia</st1:place></st1:state> or somewhere. Now <u>she</u> was nice--even if she was flat as an ironing board. But the nice ones--those were the ones he treated like shit; he’d cheat on them (I guess it’s cheating--they were only shacked up) and then leave them, like a dirty little shit.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And that friend of his, that sissie boy. I told him he was a sissie--I could tell the first day he brought him home. They were friends all through junior high, all through high school. But my god, how angry he got, when I’d warn him about what could happen.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">So much anger he had! I’ll never understand. But that’s all past. Maybe it’s his new woman. Finally someone that’s good for him--even if she is a shiksa.<br />
<br />
+ + + +</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
I tell you, I was right--he <u>was</u> crazy. Even now, a little. No wonder we get along. It’s so nice when he tells me about his life. And the things he remembers, from way back, before I got sick. Teaching him to swim, the books I bought him. How he loved books! What he could have done with them.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">No wonder I felt so comfortable, right away, when he leaned over me to listen, when I opened my lips to speak and my soul flew up out of my mouth and into his ear, I felt at home, like being with an old friend.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Oy, enough already.</div><div style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-82002308747508312852010-08-30T08:59:00.006-04:002010-09-01T11:35:20.265-04:00Yet another update of Limits of DisturbanceSome more work on this, over the weekend. Spliced in the seduction scene at the end of this iteration...but eliminated the character "Cindy" and assigned the seduction to Cortney. Cortney's ambivalence--she does not want to hear Terry's declaration of love--but wants to get him high and make love to him--reminds me in a torqued out way of Jude the Obscure...Cortney is sort of a conflation of Arabella and Sue.<br />
<br />
More generally--as the script progresses--it is loosing some of its comedic character. To a large extent, the characters have taken control of the play.<br />
<br />
-AA<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
LIMITS OF DISTURBANCE<br />
<br />
<br />
EXT. A NEW HOME CONSTRUCTION SITE - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY pulls a stack of 2x4's off a truck and balances them on his shoulder. He walks to some saw horses and flips them off his shoulder onto the horses, landing in a neat stack with a THWACK.<br />
<br />
TERRY goes back and loads his shoulder again with more 2x's.<br />
THE OLD MAN and the ARCHITECT arrive and approach TERRY.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Terry.<br />
<br />
TERRY does not notice because he has buds in his ears.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Wolfe!<br />
<br />
TERRY is startled and swings around--the 2x's arcing toward THE ARCHITECT's head--who awkwardly DUCKS--dropping the plans he was carrying.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Jeezusfuckingchrist!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sorry! I didn't hear...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Take those frikkin' snotwads outta your ears!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yessir, sorry about...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Never mind... Ms Woods here yet? <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
No, sir, I haven't seen her around today. Are you expecting...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(to THE ARCHITECT)<br />
<br />
Good, we beat her. I don't like that woman snooping around here... she's nothing but trouble...<br />
<br />
(to TERRY)<br />
<br />
You watch it with her. You don't talk to her unless she asks you a question, and if she does, make sure you don't tell her anything. You got that?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Gee, boss, we get along pretty good, she comes by almost every afternoon...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
I'm tellin' you, Terry, you watch it with that woman.<br />
<br />
(to THE ARCHITECT)<br />
<br />
Come on, Martin, let's take a look inside.<br />
<br />
INT. A new home construction site - day<br />
<br />
The house is still in rough-in stage. Workers bustle and clatter. THE OLD MAN and THE ARCHITECT walk around inside, and walk upstairs. <br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT pauses at the top of the stairs and unrolls the plans.<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT<br />
<br />
Something's not right. The master bathroom should be right here.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Lemme see those plans.<br />
<br />
They study the plan and look around. A huge PLUMBER tromps by, carrying a toilet bowl by the rim in one hand, and a toilet tank in the other.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Hey hoss... <u>what</u> is going on here...where's the bathroom?<br />
<br />
PLUMBER<br />
<br />
(gestures with his head)<br />
<br />
We moved it ovah' yonder. <br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
What the fuck...<br />
<br />
PLUMBER<br />
<br />
I jus' done what I's told, man. Talk to Terry.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Terry? He told you to move the bathroom?<br />
<br />
Other workers gather around.<br />
<br />
PLUMBER<br />
<br />
Tha's what I said, man. Talk to Terry...I gotta load up and get outta here.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Someone get Terry, NOW!<br />
<br />
The workers scatter. Shouts go up...<br />
<br />
PLUMBER<br />
<br />
YO! Wolfman!<br />
<br />
CARPENTER<br />
<br />
Ese! Lobo! El jefe te quiere!<br />
<br />
EXT. A NEW HOME CONSTRUCTION SITE - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY is using a skilsaw and cannot hear. The CARPENTER walks up to him; TERRY looks up.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Orale, Orsi.<br />
<br />
CARPENTER<br />
<br />
(jerks his thumb toward the house)<br />
<br />
Ese, Lobo, el jefe quiere verte, y hola, ¿está cabreado?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Ajora?<br />
<br />
CARPENTER<br />
<br />
Si, cholo, ajora.<br />
<br />
TERRY puts down his saw and goes in the house.<br />
<br />
INT. A NEW HOME CONSTRUCTION SITE - DAY<br />
<br />
Workers look on and follow as TERRY walks up the stairs.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Wolfe, what the hell is going on here? Did you change the layout?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Boss, we had to move the bathroom--if we framed it like the plan, there wouldn't be enough headroom for the stairs.<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT<br />
<br />
That's impossible! We don't make bush league mistakes like that.<br />
<br />
CARPENTER<br />
<br />
Ees true, man! You woulda bonk you head right here.<br />
<br />
(gestures at his forehead)<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT<br />
<br />
Ridiculous. I checked these plans myself. Jack, do you have a tape?<br />
<br />
TERRY whips his tape measure from his pouch and hands it to THE ARCHITECT, who glares back at him. THE ARCHITECT then wanders off, measuring various conditions.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Boss, there was no way this was going to work. <br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(Seething)<br />
<br />
Then why in the fuck didn't you tell me?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It was two weeks ago when I figured it out--you were at that golf tournament in Myrtle Beach.<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT returns and looks down the stairs. Then he slaps his forehead.<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT<br />
<br />
Jack, I'm afraid your man is right--when Robin had us widen the opening to the living room, we moved the stairs back two feet. It didn't occur to me to adjust the second floor plan.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Christonnafuckingcrutch! I told you she was bad news...<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
(from down below)<br />
<br />
Hel-lo! Anybody home?<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(Aside)<br />
<br />
Shit!<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
We're upstairs, Ms Woods.<br />
<br />
ROBIN ascends the stairs. Wearing high heels and tight designer jeans, she gracefully steps across extension cords and debris.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
Hi everyone. Sorry I'm late. Hi Martin, hi Jack. <br />
<br />
ROBIN shakes hands with THE OLD MAN and THE ARCHITECT. Then she notices TERRY, and goes over to him.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
(cheerily)<br />
<br />
Oh, Terry--I didn't know you were going to be here, too. <br />
<br />
ROBIN air kisses TERRY, who blushes.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hi, Robin. <br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Ms Woods, we just noticed a little problem with the layout. But don't worry, we'll make it right.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
Oh! You mean the bathroom.<br />
<br />
(she giggles)<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Really, it's no problem, we'll move it back where it's supposed to go...<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
No, I looove it, just the way it is! Terry came up with the idea...it was...just...brilliant! It's where I wanted it in the first place, with that window looking out at the garden. Please don't change a thing!<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Jeezusfu...Martin, what will it take to get a revision? We can't get a close-in inspection until we get the plans revised.<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT<br />
<br />
I'll get right on it, but it will still take a couple of days to draft up the changes, and there's no telling how long before the county signs off...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
At least another week shot to hell...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Boss, it's not a problem. I went over it with the inspector, and he signed off this morning. We're good to go.<br />
<br />
TERRY pulls the green sticker from his back pocket and hands it to THE OLD MAN. THE OLD MAN snatches it from TERRY, looks at it, scowls, and gives it back.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(still royally pissed)<br />
<br />
Post this and order the drywall.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It's already on the road. Should be delivered this afternoon. Carlos and his guys will be here tomorrow to start hanging.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN glares at TERRY.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(to the PLUMBER)<br />
<br />
What's this going to cost me, moving all this piping?<br />
<br />
PLUMBER<br />
<br />
Mr Jack, I jus' tied on to the stack from the hall bath...movin' that bathroom saved you six hundred bucks...uh...sorry, Ma'am...guess it saved you the money, right, Ms Woods...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Uh, yes, that's right. We'll make sure you get a credit, Ms Woods.<br />
<br />
(to TERRY)<br />
<br />
Terry, I don't like how this was handled, not one bit, but I reckon you made the right call. But we still need to talk...Wednesday afternoon, when you bring in the time cards...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
No problem.<br />
<br />
TERRY heads back down, and the other workers return to their activity.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Ms Woods, how about we take a look at your new bathroom...<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. A CO-OP GROCERY STORE<br />
<br />
Terry, dressed in work clothes, is looking for some ready-to-eat lunch. Nearby, a woman is stocking shelves.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Can I help you find something?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh, no thanks, just looking for something quick, you know, for lunch. Sometimes I get that beef and cheese burrito, but I don't see it here...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Omigosh--those are horrible! They have like, 800 milligrams of sodium, and beef...well, you know, is like the worst!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Uh, well, um...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Did you know it takes seven times more protein to bring a beef to market than that poor cow yields? <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Gee, I guess...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
And the conditions those cows have to endure! If you knew what it's like in a stockyard...Oh...here's something your should try.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(reading the label)<br />
<br />
Tempeh Burgerette...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It's much better than the processed tofu. People see tofu on the label, and assume it's healthy, but they're putting so many additives into it these days...Omigosh...I'm sorry, I'm yakking your ear off.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh, no, thanks a ton. I'll give it a try...<br />
<br />
TERRY looks at the package quizzically. LISA resumes stocking. TERRY looks back up.<br />
<br />
...You must like working here, I mean, being into food and all that.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I don't really work here-not for pay, anyway. It's like this-if you put in 4 hours a month, you get a 20% discount on groceries. It works out pretty good.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Soooo, what do you do the rest of the time?<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Well, sometimes I teach a yoga class at the Y. Mostly, I do massage therapy-I have my own practice. But it's been awfully slow lately...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yeah, I can imagine. Times are tough.<br />
<br />
LISA stands and faces TERRY.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
You know, what I love most of all is drumming.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wow, do you, like, play in a band?<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Gosh no...well, sort of...there's a group of us that gets together at the little park on Jefferson Street...it's pretty informal, but some of us are regulars. In fact, we're meeting tonight. You should stop by.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Gee, I don't know...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Oh, come on! I'll bring an extra drum...you'll enjoy it. Here's my card...give me a call...or just stop by.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(reading from the card)<br />
<br />
OK..."Lisa"...maybe I'll check it out. Thanks a lot. Oh, and thanks for the advice on lunch.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
No problem...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Terry. Terry Wolfe.<br />
<br />
TERRY holds out his hand and SMILES. LISA takes his hand with both of hers and bows slightly.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Terry. Nice to meet you, Terry.<br />
<br />
(DRUMS)<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
EXT. A Community coop store - day<br />
<br />
(DRUMS continue)<br />
<br />
TERRY opens a paper bag and takes out the temper sandwich. He examines the wrapper again...<br />
<br />
(DRUMS rise to climax)<br />
<br />
...and lobs it into a trash can.<br />
<br />
CUT<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - EVENING<br />
<br />
TERRY is slumped on his couch, stocking feet on a wooden cable spool that serves as a coffee table. From the TV, we hear, "Don't die, Blondie, I'll get you water. Stay there. Don't move, I'll get you water. Don't die until later..." He examines LISA's card, and flips it onto the table. Then, he leans forward and starts to put on his shoes.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
EXT. THE PARK ON JEFFERSON STREET - NIGHT<br />
<br />
DRUMMING is heard in the distance. TERRY is walking down the street. He approaches a group of drummers under and around a festive gazebo in the park.<br />
<br />
He sees LISA near the center of the group. She is playing frenetically, trading savage riffs with the TALL DRUMMER--a striking looking older man. They smile and say inaudible things to each other; the other drummers look on and follow them.<br />
<br />
TERRY pauses at the fringe and watches. The rhythm grows even more intense. He begins to move closer. LISA, transfixed on the TALL DRUMMER, does not notice him. <br />
<br />
Then, TERRY turns and walks away. LISA finally notices him and gestures and calls out, but TERRY does not hear. LISA continues to drum.<br />
<br />
TERRY walks back slowly, with his head down.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
EXT. SAVANNAH CONTRACTING - DAY<br />
<br />
(Adagio movement, Concerto for Harpsichord, Strings, and Continuo #3, JS Bach)<br />
<br />
TERRY looks at his watch, then at the sign over the door. He looks troubled. Enters.<br />
<br />
INT. SAVANNAH CONTRACTING - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY approaches THE OLD MAN's office. The door is open, and we see THE OLD MAN sitting at his desk, phone in hand.<br />
<br />
TERRY taps on the door jamb, and THE OLD MAN gestures for him to sit. TERRY nods and sits down quietly.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(into phone)<br />
<br />
Lou, I'm tellin' ya, we gotta have those cabinets on Thursday...Waddya mean, next week?...Lou...Lou... listen to me, Lou, you're fucking me with a limber prick and you ain't even kissing me...OK...OK...NO!...OK, Thursday, right...OK, then...I appreciate it.<br />
<br />
Slams down receiver.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Phew...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
You wanted to see me?<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Hello, Terry, how's it going?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
OK, I guess. Is everything alright?<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Terry, looking back on last Friday, you done good. Real good. As a matter of fact, I was proud of you. And then yesterday, you're an hour and a half late. My fucking phone is ringing like church bells at a Moonie wedding. Where's Terry, where's Terry. We're outta this, I can't find that. You think I got time to run out to your job and play nursemaid?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry Boss, my battery died...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(getting upset)<br />
<br />
Shit happens, Terry. And it ain't like this is the first time...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I know, Boss...but when I'm late, I always stay late and make up the time...sometimes I don't even put down the hours on my time sheet...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(getting hotter)<br />
<br />
God dammit, son, the rest of the entire world of construction commences at seven AM. Except for you. Dammit, boy, you get where I'm coming from?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes, sir.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(calming down)<br />
<br />
Terry, we've got good, hardworking people out there, but they need guidance. Without guidance, they're like children on a playground. They need you, Terry...I need you.<br />
<br />
TERRY, silent and still, looks intently into THE OLD MAN'S face.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(very calmly)<br />
<br />
Terry, tell me you hear what I'm saying.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I hear you.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
OK then.<br />
<br />
TERRY starts to RISE.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Wait a minute.<br />
<br />
TERRY sits back down<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Carlos called a little while ago. He says he's short 26 boards.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
26 boards? I couldn't be that far off...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
That's what he said, 26 boards. 26 twelve footers. I need you to run down to the yard and pick up 26 twelve footers and get it out to him, pronto.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Boss, I can call the yard and have it delivered tomorrow...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
We need it now. Carlos said he'd wait out there to help you unload.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
But Boss, that's almost a ton of material...my shocks are shot, and my tires...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
God DAMMIT!<br />
<br />
BANGS his fist on the desk so hard pencils jump on the floor.<br />
<br />
I don't give a skinny rat's ass about your goddam truck. You screwed up the estimate, and you gotta make it right. You got that?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(Rising)<br />
<br />
Yes, sir.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(calm again)<br />
<br />
Son, you're wearing me out, you know that? You gotta decision to make, whether you want to keep this job or not. You with me? I hope you make the right decision.<br />
<br />
(CONCERTO rises again--the saddest strains)<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
EXT. LUMBER YARD - DAY<br />
<br />
(AVEN AVEN - Gypsy Kings)<br />
<br />
A forklift loaded with drywall is approaching TERRY's truck.<br />
<br />
FORKLIFT GUY<br />
<br />
Is no good, man. Gonna break you fokking axel.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Don't worry, just set'er down easy, nice and...EASY does it.<br />
<br />
The FORKLIFT GUY sets the load in the truck, and gently pushes it forward. The rear of the truck sags ominously, and two feet of board still hangs past the open tailgate. <br />
<br />
TERRY hunches down and peers under the bed of the truck<br />
<br />
Suave! I've got daylight under the springs.<br />
<br />
TERRY rocks the bed of the truck to prove it.<br />
<br />
FORKLIFT GUY<br />
<br />
Chiwow, Lobo. Usted es un hijo de puta loca.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Aieee! Mi burro viejo puede manejar! See you later, Tito!<br />
<br />
TERRY gets in the truck and drives off. The truck wallows in the ruts of the unpaved yard. He proceeds onto the main drag. A car swerves in front of him and he SLAMS on the brakes. Two rental DVD’s slide from the visor.<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Dag! More late fees!<br />
<br />
TERRY hangs a wicked U-turn, truck YAWING precipitously, and drives to the VIDEO STORE. <br />
<br />
SCENE 7 Ext. THE VIDEO STORE - Day<br />
<br />
He whips in front of the store and gets out, leaving the engine running. He starts to put the CD's in a slot in the door when he notices a woman inside waving to him. He peeks inside.<br />
<br />
INT. THE VIDEO STORE - day<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Hey, dork, that slot is for after-hours.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sorry, Don, I'm on the run<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
It's Donna to you, buster. And by the way, I've been holding that disc you asked me about for a week now.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
The Unforgiven?<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Un forgiven. No The. If you want it, you better take it now, or I need to put it back on the shelf.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Don, I really have to scramble...<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Yaknow, this is a popular disc, and every time I tell someone it's not available, I lose another customer to Netflix. I'm fighting a losing battle here, dude...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(glancing back to his truck)<br />
<br />
Sorry, I don't mean to mess you up. I'll take it now.<br />
<br />
DONNA bends at the waist to retrieve the disc from under the counter. As she leans, her top DROOPS, and TERRY cannot help glancing at her boobs. DONNA notices.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Hey, creep, no drooling on my counter.<br />
<br />
TERRY shoves his right fist under his shirt and bump-bumps over his heart.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(smiling)<br />
<br />
Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.<br />
<br />
DONNA rolls her eyes and hands him the disc and a receipt. TERRY starts to sign the receipt and looks up at DONNA.<br />
<br />
You wanna come over and watch it with me?<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
No thanks, bub, seen it twice. And anyway, I thought you were getting back together with Cortney.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I tried. I really tried. I think she did, too. But it hardly took anytime at all before we were fighting again, same old stupid shit. Stuff I don't even care about, until she presses the right button. Then, bam, I'm seeing red, and here we go again. It's like someone wrote a script for us...<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
...and you don't have any choice but to play the roles. Yadyada. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Dammit, Don, it's true, it's like we don't even have a choice. I had to get out of there. <br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
I never understood why you got hitched in the first place. You were the brainy one, the big SAT score. Didn't you have a scholarship for, what, archeology...some hot shot school down south?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Architecture. Auburn. Anyway, that's water under the bridge.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Jeez, Terry, it's not too late...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Well, it's not in the cards for now, with my shitty salary, and child support on top of that.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Oh, that's right, you have a kid. My god, Terry, he must what, two or three years old...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(beaming)<br />
<br />
Almost six, and she's a girl. Her name is Juniper. She's going into first grade next week...it flips me out. She's a real, complete little person, totally cool...and smart...smarter than me, I think.<br />
<br />
TERRY pulls out his wallet and shows DONNA a photo.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Oh, she's adorable! Juniper. Six years old...Terry, you were so young.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I know, I know. Everyone wanted us to make it go away. But I was a knucklehead about it. My father wouldn't even speak to me for months. And I leaned way too hard on Cortney...maybe that's why she's still so angry with me.<br />
<br />
DONNA admires the photo again and hands it back to TERRY<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Juniper. Sometimes I wish I had my own...shit!...is that your truck out there?<br />
<br />
They look out the window. A meter maid approaches the truck.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Damn! Gotta go! But, hey, why don't you come over...I'll get a pizza and some...beer...<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
I'd like to sometime, Terry, but not right now. I'm sorta seeing someone...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Well, lucky guy, I guess...<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
You better beat it, ragmop, look's like she's about to write you up.<br />
<br />
TERRY dashes out the door.<br />
<br />
EXT. THE VIDEO STORE - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY rushes up to the METER MAID.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, I just meant to drop off a movie...I'm leaving right now...<br />
<br />
METER MAID<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, too, I already entered your tag.<br />
<br />
METER MAID holds up an electronic device.<br />
<br />
Once I enter the number, I have to issue a ticket. And you're taking up two spaces, too.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
<br />
You mean you're giving me two tickets? That's seventy bucks!<br />
<br />
METER MAID<br />
<br />
Two spaces are two spaces.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I know, but you haven't entered the other ticket yet, have you? I can put a quarter in the meter.<br />
<br />
METER MAID<br />
<br />
Look, I'm just doing my job, sir.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'll put in fifty cents...<br />
<br />
TERRY fumbles in his pockets.<br />
<br />
I mean, if I have it...<br />
<br />
METER MAID glares at Terry and hands him a ticket, and starts to enter another.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh please, please, please give me a break...it will never happen again...I promise!<br />
<br />
TERRY gives METER MAID a goofy smile, she starts to crack up.<br />
<br />
METER MAID<br />
<br />
Alright, son, just this once. But if I see this truck again, parked like this, I'll...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Thankyouthankyouthankyou, I won't forget this...<br />
<br />
TERRY jumps in the truck and starts to pull away. He yells out the window at the METER MAID<br />
<br />
Thankyouthankyou...I love you!<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. YOUNG TERRY'S CAR - NIGHT<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sorry you didn't like it.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Well, it was pretty creepy. I mean, like, the ladies' room...ungghh...I didn't want to touch anything. But the burgers were pretty good.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yeah, and they didn't card us...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
That's right, I forgot...your birthday isn't til August.<br />
<br />
They drive on in silence for a moment. TERRY turns on the radio.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Terry, I had fun tonight. Now that school is over, I feel like I'm getting to know you better.<br />
<br />
TERRY switches off the radio.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Cortney...I...I love you, Cortney.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Oh, Terry--please don't mean it--not that way...not the way I think you mean it...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I mean it, Cortney...I mean...I mean, what do you mean?<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
I mean, like, we've only been going together for a few weeks...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It'll be three months, tomorrow...<br />
<br />
Cortney<br />
<br />
See what I mean! We hardly know each other. And you're leaving for school soon, like, in Alabama, of all places! What's that going to be like, surrounded by those southern belles, and me up here, living with my 'rents...<br />
<br />
TERRY clams up, drives on, clenching the wheel with both hands. He turns on the radio again.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Terry? Terry, I'm sorry. I like you a lot. I really do, I think about you all the time...remember, in English class, when you recited that poem...<br />
<br />
TERRY turns off the radio.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
"Shall I, wasting in despair, die because a woman's fair..."<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Yeah, that's the one...it made me cream, Terry. I knew you were speaking to me.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
And I could see you start to cry. I think that's when I fell...<br />
<br />
Cortney<br />
<br />
Please don't say it, Terry. You're the nicest guy I know, but I'm not ready to get tied down yet. <br />
<br />
TERRY clams up again. CORTNEY turns toward him and places her left hand on TERRY's right arm.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Terry.<br />
<br />
TERRY switches on the radio with his right arm. CORTNEY pulls her hand away.<br />
<br />
Terry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Can't we be friends? I mean, like really good friends?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
"Be she fairer than the day, or the flowery mead in May, If she be not so to me..."<br />
<br />
TERRY AND CORTNEY, in unison<br />
<br />
"...What care I, how fair she be?"<br />
<br />
TERRY and CORTNEY both break out laughing.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S TRUCK - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY chuckles to himself. He approaches the...<br />
<br />
EXT. A NEW HOME CONSTRUCTION SITE - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY drives up along side a new crew cab pickup truck. Carlos is in its drivers seat, with three other guys.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Ese, Carlos.<br />
<br />
Carlos<br />
<br />
Eh, Lobo, where you been, man? We just be leaving.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sorry, man, I got hung up. Come on, let's get this board into the house.<br />
<br />
CARLOS<br />
<br />
No way, 'migo. Is already way past four. We get it in the morning.<br />
<br />
CARLOS starts his engine and shifts into gear.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
But I have to be in the office first thing, to pick up the payroll. If I'm late, the Old Man will ream me a new asshole...<br />
<br />
CARLOS<br />
<br />
Sorry bout that, ese, we be waiting for you for two hours. I gotta pay these guys for sit around doin' nothing, count a you be late. I see you later...<br />
<br />
CARLOS pulls away. TERRY also starts to pull away, traveling down the street, but then backs up, pauses in front of the house, and then backs up the driveway.<br />
<br />
TERRY gets out and walks to the back of the truck. He tears the paper strip that binds the ends of a pair of boards into a book; then jerks the top board sideways to tear the front strip. He starts to pull the board out of the truck and pauses.<br />
<br />
Then he shoves the board back in, gets back in the truck, and backs up across the muddy, rutted front yard, up to the front door. His old truck lurches and wallows.<br />
<br />
TERRY proceeds to unload the boards one at a time. It begins to rain, big splats of water on the board and on his shirt. So he starts to carry the boards in pairs, struggling mightly.<br />
<br />
The rain intensifies. TERRY struggles, slipping and sliding in the mud.<br />
<br />
Finally he finishes unloading. He completely muddy up to his knees, and his soaked shirt clings to his back. He pauses, panting, under the small front porch roof. The rain slacks off.<br />
<br />
TERRY hunches his shoulders and turns his head from side to side, trying to loosen his muscles--when he hears from a distance...<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
Terry! Is that you?<br />
<br />
ROBIN has driven up to the curb. TERRY sees her and waves. ROBIN starts to get out of her car.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hi, Robin. Hey, don't get out, it's pretty muddy...<br />
<br />
ROBIN pops up a huge fancy umbrella and tiptoes in her high heels up some planks laid in the mud. She is carrying a tote bag.<br />
<br />
ROBIN reaches the little stoop and furls the umbrella. She and TERRY must stand close together to stay out of the rain.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
Hi Terry, I was hoping to find you here. I brought you a little something, to say thanks for all you've done.<br />
<br />
ROBIN slips a bottle of champaigne halfway out of her bag.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Gee, Robin, thanks, but I'm just doing my job...<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
No, Terry, everything is coming out great. Really great. And I hate to say it, but I'm so glad I'm working with you and not with your boss...I shouldn't say any more. Let's go inside. I have some glaaa-sses! <br />
<br />
ROBIN smiles provocatively. TERRY backs up against the door.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I dunno, Robin. I mean, thanks, thanks a lot, but I'm soaked to the bone. I need to get cleaned up...<br />
<br />
TERRY starts to move around and winces sharply.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
ROBIN sets down her tote bag.<br />
<br />
Terry! Are you all right?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(recovering somewhat)<br />
<br />
I'm ok, my back is a little sore, that's all.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
ROBIN places her hand on his chest.<br />
<br />
Where does it hurt, Terry, maybe I can do some...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It's really nothing, Robin, but I better get going. Maybe some other time...<br />
<br />
TERRY winces again, and his knee partially buckles.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
Terry!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, I should go...<br />
<br />
ROBIN backs off and TERRY sidles around her and gets back in his truck. ROBIN remains standing on the porch, her expression saddening as TERRY pulls away.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - EVENING<br />
<br />
Again we see the TV in the foreground, with TERRY on the couch. He is wearing nothing but boxer shorts, and has a towel around his shoulders. His hair is damp.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF LITTLE BILL <br />
I says, "You'll want to give over your pistol." <br />
<br />
TERRY drains a can of Old Milwaukee; as he sets down the empty, the camera pans down and we see numerous empties on the cable-spool coffee table.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF MUNNY <br />
<br />
Uh, no. No, I ain't drunk.<br />
<br />
TERRY gets up and rubs his back, and walks out of sight. The sequence on the screen continues. In a moment TERRY returns with another six on a plastic yoke. He sits down and winces.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF LITTLE BILL <br />
<br />
Mister Beauchamp, this here is the sort of trash I was speakin' of. <br />
<br />
He adjusts a pillow behind his back, and grimacing, picks up another can and pulls the tab. The view reverses; we now see the TV screen, where Little Bill is kicking the bejeezus out of Munny, who crawls on his hands and knees out of the bar, into the rainy, muddy street...<br />
<br />
Again the view reverses; we see TERRY's eyes closing. The open beercan is still in his hand, supported by the arm of the couch. His head falls forward...<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - MORNING<br />
<br />
Grey light filters in the room. Rain is lightly spattering on the window. Blue text flickers on the TV screen. TERRY is motionless, in the same position, beercan still in his hand. Is he dead?<br />
<br />
Then, without budging, TERRY's eyes open.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Uhhhhnnggghh.<br />
<br />
He finally moves his head to look at the beercan.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Ahhhhh... fuck!<br />
<br />
TERRY turns sets down the can on the spool and slowly sits up at the edge of the couch. He becomes aware of the sound of the rain. <br />
<br />
Then TERRY leans forward to retrieve a pair of jeans lying on the floor. As he bends, we hear a little POP...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
AUUCCK!<br />
<br />
TERRY crumples in agony onto the floor. He tries to rise but fails. Slowly he creeps and slithers to the bathroom, pulling himself along with his arms and elbow.<br />
He reaches the edge of the bathtub and manages to turn on the shower. Steam rises and water spatters on the floor.<br />
<br />
TERRY struggles and manages to throw a knee over the egde of the tub, and rolls in. Finally, he rises to his knees and pulls down his shorts. The hot water pounds on his lower back. He remains there, taking long, deep breaths...<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - MORNING (MOMENTS LATER)<br />
<br />
TERRY is wearing only jeans. His hair and beard are glistening wet, beads of water remain on his shoulders.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
(into cell phone)<br />
<br />
Boss, I can't make it this morning... It's my back, I can hardly stand up... No, I delivered it yesterday; I think that's when I hurt my back... Workers' Comp? No, I hadn't thought about it... Ok... OK... I won't claim it... Just give me the day, I'll try to make it in tomorrow... Thanks, Boss.<br />
<br />
TERRY hobbles into the bathroom and opens the medicine cabinet. He pulls out a bottle. <br />
(closeup of bottle) <br />
"TAKE ONE TABLET ORALLY EVERY SIX HOURS/ACETAMINOPHEN/CODEINE 30MG TAB"<br />
TERRY empties the bottle. Three tablets roll into his hand. He tosses them in his mouth; then walks over to the couch and washes down the tablets with the open can of beer.<br />
<br />
Then he sits down on the couch and adjusts the pillow. He looks down and sees LISA's card. He picks it up and reads it.<br />
(closeup of card)<br />
"LISA LOCKE/THERAPEUTIC MASSAGE/A Nurturing Blend of Swedish Massage, Caring Touch,/Deep Tissue Massage, and Intuitive Energy Work/240-568-4224"<br />
<br />
TERRY puts the card down and turns back on the TV. He scrolls back to where he left off last night.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF LITTLE BILL <br />
<br />
If they was just here for the fuckin', how come they lit out the back window? <br />
<br />
VOICE OF ALICE<br />
<br />
On account of they seen you was beatin' on their friend.<br />
<br />
TERRY switches off the sound and retrieves the card. He dials the number on his cell phone. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
(into cell phone)<br />
<br />
Lisa... Hi, Lisa, this is Terry... Terry, Terry Wolfe... You know, the guy in the co-op... yeah, with the red beard, that's me... Pretty good, how about you?... Actually, I'm not doing so hot; I really racked my back... Unloading some sheetrock... Yeah, you ain't kidding it's heavy... I dunno, I guess so... Sure, five o'clock... 8104 Roanoke Drive... yeah, I think so... OK, thanks, I really appreciate it... Yeah, it'll be nice to see you again, too... No, I'll be there at five sharp, I understand... So long.<br />
<br />
TERRY switches back on the sound, and downs the rest of the beer.<br />
<br />
VOICE OF NED <br />
<br />
Hold him, dammit. <br />
<br />
VOICE OF THE KID <br />
<br />
Jesus. (pause) You done this before?<br />
<br />
TERRY nods out with the remote in his hand.<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
Raking sun comes through the blinds, shining on sleeping TERRY. He wakes with a start and looks at his watch.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Holy shit!<br />
<br />
TERRY, still in pain, struggles to pull a T-shirt over his head. He slips on some flip flops and leaves the apartment.<br />
<br />
EXT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
TERRY walks up to his truck and gets in.<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S TRUCK - AFTERNOON (TRAVELING)<br />
<br />
TERRY struggles with the clutch. He gives up; kills the engine and shifts into low. Then he turns the key--the ancient truck has no lockout--the truck moves forward on the starter motor and then the engine engages. As the truck advances, TERRY slams it into high gear without clutching--gears grind horrendously.<br />
<br />
EXT. SUBURBAN STREET - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
TERRY's truck lurches through a stop sign, horrible grinding sounds are heard as the truck passes by.<br />
<br />
EXT. LISA's HOME - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
TERRY pulls up to a bungalow on a tree lined street. He gets out and approaches the house--the lead walk is blocked by recycling containers and other detritus, so <br />
he walks along the driveway. <br />
<br />
From the neighbor's yard a huge dog lunges at him, placing its front paws on the top of a fence and barking ferociously. TERRY turns toward the dog.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hey baby, be cool now.<br />
<br />
The dog pauses, then continues to bark. Terry extends a hand.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hey now, it's ok, just be cool.<br />
The dog pauses, then snaps at his hand. TERRY withdraws it just in time.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Comeon, now, babe, let's be cool. Reaalll cooool.<br />
<br />
TERRY extends his hand again. This time the dog lets TERRY pet its head.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Thaaat's a good dog, nice dog, soooo cool now, yeah.<br />
<br />
The dog makes a squealing sound. TERRY continues up the driveway, and hobbles up the porch steps.<br />
<br />
The porch is strewn with children's toys and tricycles. The front door is open; <br />
TERRY peers in and knocks. The YOUNG MAN walks out and meets TERRY on the porch; he is wearing a loosened tie and an ID tag on a chain. Inside is a YOUNG WOMAN holding an infant.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hi, uh, sorry to interrupt, I, uh, have an appointment with Lisa... but maybe I have the wrong...<br />
<br />
YOUNG MAN<br />
<br />
No, you're at the right house; Lisa's around back. There's a path along the left--but watch out for the neighbor's dog--it's viscious.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Thanks, sorry to bother you.<br />
<br />
TERRY descends the steps.<br />
<br />
YOUNG WOMAN (o.s.)<br />
<br />
Charles, you have to speak to Lisa about her clients coming to the front.<br />
<br />
YOUNG MAN<br />
<br />
(going back inside)<br />
Darling, I've told her a hundred...<br />
<br />
TERRY walks around the side of the house. The dog trots along the fence, whimpering. TERRY then turns the corner and finds a set of concrete steps leading a half flight down to a basement door. There is a sundeck above the steps. A cat is sunning on the wall beside the steps.<br />
<br />
TERRY walks down the steps and raises his knuckles to knock, but LISA opens the door first. LISA walks out and confronts him in the small space.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hi, Lisa...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Do you realize what time it is?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Uh, I know I'm late, I'm so sorry... <br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It's nearly six! I told you we're drumming tonight at the peace vigil; I've got to be downtown at seven. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I know, you did tell me... I took some pain pills and fell asleep...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, too, Terry, but I have obligations. There's just not enought time to do anything for you now. I really should charge you for a no-show...<br />
<br />
TERRY winces again and his knee flexes. He clutches his lower back.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Unnnhhh.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Oh dear. Turn around.<br />
<br />
TERRY turns away from her. LISA pulls up his shirt and runs her hand up and down each side of his spine. When her hand touches the small of his back, TERRY tenses slightly.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Ooooo.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It's right here, I feel the heat.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes, sometimes it's like an electric shock... I see a flash of light...<br />
<br />
LISA rubs the spot slowly.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It's your sacro. It's in total spasm. Come in, let's get you up on the table.<br />
<br />
LISA opens the door for TERRY who squeezes past her. At the last second, the cat jumps off the wall and skitters in between their feet.<br />
<br />
INT. LISA'S HOME - AFTERNOON<br />
<br />
LISA leads TERRY through a small kitchen, then through a bedroom decorated with printed fabrics and lots of candles. TERRY has to dodge a painted paper umbrella, hung upside down from the ceiling as a light shade. <br />
<br />
Finally they reach a small room with a massage table. There is a high silled window at one end, and on the adjacent wall, a small stand with a boom box, some CD's, and some bottles of oil. <br />
<br />
On the wall opposite the window is a poster of a blue skinned man and woman in a fanciful costume, with a bare midriff. The figures are flying on the back of a half-man, half-bird creature.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
OK, you need to get undressed. Everything. I'm going to start on your ventral, so you need to lie on your back. Are you going to need help?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Uh, no thanks, I think I can manage.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Good. Just pull this sheet over you when you lay down. I'll give you a couple of minutes.<br />
<br />
LISA leaves and draws a curtain across the door. Examining the poster, TERRY undresses and lays down. He looks up at the bare joists.<br />
<br />
LISA (O.S.)<br />
<br />
Are you ready?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
OK.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, he remembers the sheet and pulls it over himself. LISA enters with a glass of water. <br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
OK, comfy?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes, very... Thanks so much for doing this...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Never mind; I couldn't send you off like that... Now drink this water; it will help to flush the toxins away.<br />
<br />
TERRY silent drains the glass.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wow, I didn't even know I was thirsty.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
You're running around at the edge of dehydration, you know that? No wonder you've injured yourself! Now then, do you mind if I put on some music? <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh, sure. Please do.<br />
<br />
LISA puts a CD in the boombox. TERRY can just make out LISA's legs through her gauzy pants, silhouetted by light from the window. The music is a raga, and starts with slow, shimmering arpegios on the sitar.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I hope you like ragas. They help me to listen to your body.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
I guess so, if that's what it takes.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
For these sacros, I like to start at the top and work down... get everything around the crisis region as relaxed as possible, before dealing with it.<br />
<br />
LISA begins to massage TERRY's scalp and temples. TERRY looks up and notices thick black hair in LISA's armpits, and the outline of her breasts and nipples against her tight, thin sleeveless shell.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It's good to have a plan, I guess.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I do start with a strategy, generally, you know, but then I let my hands tell me exactly what to do. Now you just concentrate on your breathing, and try to relax. Imagine the toxins, draining out of your muscles, into your bloodstream.<br />
<br />
LISA continues the massage, first working oil into his shoulders and arms, then kneading and pulling in slow, strong motions. TERRY is mezmerized by her breasts, changing shape as she works over him. Then LISA notices a bump on his collar bone.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
That must have hurt.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I guess. I was high at the time. Riding my bike and hit a patch of wet leaves. Going way too fast, as usual.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I like bicycling.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I had to bicycle because my license was suspended. I haven’t ridden much since they reinstated it, though. Maybe I should take it up again and break the other collar bone. The shoulder on the broken side doesn’t stick out near as far as my good shoulder. It makes me look deformed.<br />
<br />
LISA closes her eyes and continues.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
You... have a beautiful body.<br />
<br />
The raga builds in intensity. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I like... I like your body, too.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
OK, I need you to turn over. Let’s get to work on this knot.<br />
<br />
TERRY turns over, keeping the sheet above his waist. As he turns, he fixes again on the figures on the poster. LISA continues with the massage. <br />
<br />
Now watching LISA's bare feet, he sees the cat come in and rub against her legs.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
(FLASHBACK) INT. YOUNG TERRY'S CAR - NIGHT<br />
<br />
TERRY and CORTNEY laugh together. Then they pause.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
"If she slight me, when I woo,/ I can scorn and let her go"...<br />
<br />
Cortney frowns and pulls away.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry... I didn't mean it.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
(scowling)<br />
<br />
Good grief, Terry, you're such a mope.<br />
Suddenly Cortney's face lights up. <br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Why don't you find somewhere to park?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
You mean here? <br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Yeah, here, why not?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I dunno, CORTNEY, I guess cause...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
(with a devilish look)<br />
<br />
'Cause I got something you might like.<br />
<br />
Terry turns toward her, frowning. CORTNEY pulls an Altoids tin from her purse and opens it, and shows him the contents. The tin holds several generous joints and some strike anywhere matches. Terry's eyes light up.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wow, Where'd you get those? I haven't done any of that stuff since middle school.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Omigod, Terry, where have you been keeping yourself, under some rock?<br />
<br />
TERRY shrugs.<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, Terry, you know what I mean. Come on, let's pull over. Look, up ahead.<br />
(points ahead to a parking area)<br />
<br />
Terry pulls off at the parking area. A sign reads "NO PARKING AFTER SUNSET."<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
Uh-oh. We better go. <br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
Don't worry, nothing's gonna happen.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
I dunno about this. My dad’ll kill me if we get in trouble...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
Terry! You're such a stick in the mud. You really need to try some of this weed, it’ll loosen you up a little.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
Well, we can't smoke it here. We're sitting ducks for a cop.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
Doofuss! I didn't mean right here.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY reaches over and puts the Altoids tin in his shirt pocket and kisses his cheek. Then she slides away and opens her door.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
Come with me. I think I know a place we can go.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY gets out of the truck. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
What the...hey! Where are you going...<br />
<br />
Terry grabs the keys and gets out.<br />
<br />
EXT. A PARKING AREA - NIGHT<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
Hey, wait up!<br />
<br />
CORTNEY dances off toward a gap in the trees and turns toward Terry.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
Yo, slowpoke! Follow me, comeon!<br />
<br />
Terry jogs after her. CORTNEY pauses and takes his hand, and leads him into the woods.<br />
<br />
EXT. A WOODED PATH LEADING DOWN TO A CREEK - NIGHT<br />
<br />
CORTNEY skips and bounds down the path, laughing, while holding Terry's hand. She reaches the bank and stops shortly, grabs his hand with both of hers and swings Terry toward the creek. He stuttersteps toward the creek and regains his balance by pulling her toward him, until they are almost embracing, tottering at the bank.<br />
<br />
EXT. A CREEK - NIGHT<br />
<br />
Breaking away, CORTNEY shrieks with laughter and tiptoes out onto some rocks in the creek. Once again she takes Terry's hand and leads him along.<br />
<br />
They go maybe halfway across and find there are no more rocks within reach.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
Oh dear. Well, I think there's a bridge somewhere. Let's go back.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
(blocking her path)<br />
No way, not now!<br />
<br />
Terry scoops CORTNEY up in his arms, effortlessly, like he would lift a child. Then, carrying her, he plunges into the water, almost up to his crotch. CORTNEY kicks her legs up and squeals with delight, hugging him tightly around his neck.<br />
<br />
EXT. THE FAR SIDE OF THE CREEK - NIGHT<br />
<br />
They reach the other side, a sandy spot, sort of a nook defined by boulders and vegetation. The moon illuminates the two figures. <br />
<br />
Terry sets her down gently. CORTNEY, viewed from behind, keeps her arms around his neck, and Terry, somewhat gingerly, holds her, just touching lightly her on the shoulders. She leans into him and kisses him, and backs away.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
Terry, I take back what I said about being a stick in the mud. Do you forgive me?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
I guess so--I mean no--I mean I was sorta agreeing with you.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
Oh Terry! You're too much. Hey, fire up a number. It'll help get your head out of your butt.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
Wow. I really mean it, I haven't done any pot since I was 15.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
Oh come on. I'm tellin' ya, this is some nice stuff.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
OK, no problem.<br />
<br />
Terry takes the tin from his pocket and removes a joint and a match. He puts the joint in his mouth and strikes the match against the boulder, and lights up. When he gets it going, he passes it to CORTNEY.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY takes a dainty hit, with the sound of air hissing between her lips. She smiles and passes it back.<br />
<br />
Terry takes a long deep hit and holds it in. His eyes are scrunched shut and his cheeks bulge. Then he leans his head back and lets it out slowly, issuing a long stream of smoke.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
Wooo-oooohhh! Oh man! What a rush.<br />
<br />
They pass the joint back and forth a few times, giggling. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
Hoh yeah, that went straight to my head... and beyond! <br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
Me too. Feelin' a little better?<br />
<br />
Terry does not reply. He sets the roach on the boulder and faces her. This time he initiates an embrace, and they kiss again.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY pulls back a little and smartly pulls her t-shirt over her head, and drops it. She shakes out her hair, and reaching back, unsnaps her bra, and lets it fall away. She is still facing away, towards Terry, but her back is shapely and alluring.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
(shuddering ever so slightly)<br />
You are so beautiful.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY smiles and unbuttons his shirt. Terry slips it off and sets it on the boulder. He is lean, but sculpted. His eyes are fixed on her as he picks up the roach and takes another hit. They kiss again, languidly, completely absorbed in one another. CORTNEY still faces away. Terry's hands caress her back, and slowly move down the sides of her thighs.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
(breathlessly)<br />
Oh Terry. <br />
<br />
Pulling back, but still in his arms, CORTNEY fumbles with the snap of her jeans for a moment, and they fall away. She is clad only in panties now.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
(whispers)<br />
Oh my.<br />
<br />
They hug quietly for a moment, gazing into each others eyes. <br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
(moans)<br />
Take me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-87301024080054183402010-08-23T09:59:00.000-04:002010-08-23T09:59:41.206-04:00further disturbance (screenplay, updated)As the development of this screenplay progresses, I am becoming painfully aware of how trite and unsatisfactory the original story is. In retrospect, it is loaded with cheap shots, and, well, fundamentally misogynistic. <br />
<br />
Writing this screenplay, I am becoming better acquainted with the characters--a necessary outcome of putting words in their mouths, and forcing them to interact--in this process, they become more human, more individualized--and far more sympathetic. It's no longer a simple comedy.<br />
<br />
The original story line seems to be holding up, but each major character has its own issues, its own struggle. Cortney and Donna, and Lisa and Robin are becoming sets of foils. The Old Man and Terry's father will be foils as well. <br />
<br />
Those of you from my neck of the woods will recognize the Gazebo Park on Carroll Avenue, Video American, the Takoma Park Co-op, and Galliher and Huguely's lumber yard on Blair Road. Terry's apartment will be on funky Edinburg Lane. Other "landmarks" will appear. <br />
<br />
My ultimate objective is to shoot this movie here, in Takoma Park and Silver Spring, with local production and talent.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-4066037566054754262010-08-23T09:33:00.000-04:002010-08-23T09:33:03.776-04:00LIMITS OF DISTURBANCE (c)<br />
By Alan Abrams<br />
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br />
<br />
EXT. A NEW HOME CONSTRUCTION SITE - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY pulls a stack of 2x4's off a truck and balances them on his shoulder. He walks to some saw horses and flips them off his shoulder onto the horses, landing in a neat stack with a THWACK.<br />
<br />
TERRY goes back and loads his shoulder again with more 2x's.<br />
THE OLD MAN and the ARCHITECT arrive and approach TERRY.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Terry.<br />
<br />
TERRY does not notice because he has buds in his ears.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Wolfe!<br />
<br />
TERRY is startled and swings around--the 2x's arcing toward THE ARCHITECT's head--who awkwardly DUCKS--dropping the plans he was carrying.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Jeezusfuckingchrist!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sorry! I didn't hear...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Take those frikkin' earphones outta your ears!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yessir, sorry about...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Never mind...Ms Woods here yet? <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
No, sir, I haven't seen her around today. Are you expecting...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(to THE ARCHITECT)<br />
<br />
Good, we beat her. I don't like that woman snooping around here...she's nothing but trouble...<br />
<br />
(to TERRY)<br />
<br />
You watch it with her. You don't talk to her unless she asks you a question--and if she does, make sure you don't tell her anything. You got that?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Gee, boss, we get along pretty good, she comes by almost every afternoon...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
I'm tellin' you, Terry, you watch it with that woman.<br />
<br />
(to THE ARCHITECT)<br />
<br />
Come on, Martin, let's take a look inside.<br />
<br />
INT. A new home construction site - day<br />
<br />
The house is still in rough-in stage. Workers bustle and clatter. THE OLD MAN and THE ARCHITECT walk around inside, and walk upstairs. <br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT pauses at the top of the stairs and unrolls the plans.<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT<br />
<br />
Something's not right. The master bathroom should be right here.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Lemme see those plans.<br />
<br />
They study the plan and look around. A huge PLUMBER tromps by, carrying a toilet bowl by the rim in one hand, and a toilet tank in the other.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Hey! What is going on here...where's the bathroom?<br />
<br />
PLUMBER<br />
<br />
(gestures with his head)<br />
<br />
We moved it ovah' yonder. <br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
What the fuck...<br />
<br />
PLUMBER<br />
<br />
I jus' done what I's told, man. Talk to Terry.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Terry? He told you to move the bathroom?<br />
<br />
Other workers gather around.<br />
<br />
PLUMBER<br />
<br />
Tha's what I said, man. Talk to Terry...I gotta load up and get outta here.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Someone get Terry, NOW!<br />
<br />
The workers scatter. Shouts go up...<br />
<br />
PLUMBER<br />
<br />
YO! Wolfman!<br />
<br />
CARPENTER<br />
<br />
Ese! Lobo! El jefe te quiere!<br />
<br />
EXT. A NEW HOME CONSTRUCTION SITE - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY is using a skilsaw and cannot hear. The CARPENTER walks up to him; TERRY looks up.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Orale, Orsi.<br />
<br />
CARPENTER<br />
<br />
(jerks his thumb toward the house)<br />
<br />
Ese, Lobo, el jefe quiere verte, y hola, ¿está cabreado?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Ajora?<br />
<br />
CARPENTER<br />
<br />
Si, cholo, ajora.<br />
<br />
TERRY puts down his saw and goes in the house.<br />
<br />
INT. A NEW HOME CONSTRUCTION SITE - DAY<br />
<br />
Workers look on and follow as TERRY walks up the stairs.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Wolfe, what the hell is going on here? Did you change the layout?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Boss, we had to move the bathroom--if we framed it like the plan, there wouldn't be enough headroom for the stairs.<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT<br />
<br />
That's impossible! We don't make bush league mistakes like that.<br />
<br />
CARPENTER<br />
<br />
Ees true, man! You woulda bonk you head right here.<br />
<br />
(gestures at his forehead)<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT<br />
<br />
Ridiculous. I checked these plans myself. Jack, do you have a tape?<br />
<br />
TERRY whips his tape measure from his pouch and hands it to THE ARCHITECT, who glares back at him. THE ARCHITECT then wanders off, measuring various conditions.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Boss, there was no way this was going to work. <br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(Seething)<br />
<br />
Then why in the fuck didn't you tell me?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It was two weeks ago when I figured it out--you were at that golf tournament in Myrtle Beach.<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT returns and looks down the stairs. Then he slaps his forehead.<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT<br />
<br />
Jack, I'm afraid your man is right--when Robin had us widen the opening to the living room, we moved the stairs back two feet. It didn't occur to me to adjust the second floor plan.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Christonnafuckingcrutch! I told you she was bad news...<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
(from down below)<br />
<br />
Hel-lo! Anybody home?<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(Aside)<br />
<br />
Shit!<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
We're upstairs, Ms Woods.<br />
<br />
ROBIN ascends the stairs. Wearing high heels and tight designer jeans, she gracefully steps across extension cords and debris.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
Hi everyone. Sorry I'm late. Hi Martin, hi Jack. <br />
<br />
ROBIN shakes hands with THE OLD MAN and THE ARCHITECT. Then she notices TERRY, and goes over to him.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
(cheerily)<br />
<br />
Oh, Terry--I didn't know you were going to be here, too. <br />
<br />
ROBIN air kisses TERRY, who blushes.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hi, Robin. <br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Ms Woods, we just noticed a little problem with the layout. But don't worry, we'll make it right.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
Oh! You mean the bathroom.<br />
<br />
(she giggles)<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Really, it's no problem, we'll move it back where it's supposed to go...<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
No, I looove it, just the way it is! Terry came up with the idea...it was...just...brilliant! It's where I wanted it in the first place, with that window looking out at the garden. Please don't change a thing!<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Jeezusfu...Martin, what will it take to get a revision? We can't get a close-in inspection until we get the plans revised.<br />
<br />
THE ARCHITECT<br />
<br />
I'll get right on it, but it will still take a couple of days to draft up the changes, and there's no telling how long before the county signs off...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
At least another week shot to hell...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Boss, it's not a problem. I went over it with the inspector, and he signed off this morning. We're good to go.<br />
<br />
TERRY pulls the green sticker from his back pocket and hands it to THE OLD MAN. THE OLD MAN snatches it from TERRY, looks at it, scowls, and gives it back.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(still royally pissed)<br />
<br />
Post this and order the drywall.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It's already on the road. Should be delivered this afternoon. Carlos and his guys will be here tomorrow to start hanging.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN glares at TERRY.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(to the PLUMBER)<br />
<br />
What's this going to cost me, moving all this piping?<br />
<br />
PLUMBER<br />
<br />
Mr Jack, I jus' tied on to the stack from the hall bath...movin' that bathroom saved you six hundred bucks...uh...sorry, Ma'am...guess it saved you the money, right, Ms Woods...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Uh, yes, that's right. We'll make sure you get a credit, Ms Woods.<br />
<br />
(to TERRY)<br />
<br />
Terry, I don't like how this was handled, not one bit, but I reckon you made the right call. But we still need to talk...Wednesday afternoon, when you bring in the time cards...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
No problem.<br />
<br />
TERRY heads back down, and the other workers return to their activity.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Ms Woods, how about we take a look at your new bathroom...<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. A CO-OP GROCERY STORE<br />
<br />
Terry, dressed in work clothes, is looking for some ready-to-eat lunch. Nearby, a woman is stocking shelves.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Can I help you find something?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh, no thanks, just looking for something quick, you know, for lunch. Sometimes I get that beef and cheese burrito, but I don't see it here...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Omigosh--those are horrible! They have like, 800 milligrams of sodium, and beef...well, you know, is like the worst!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Uh, well, um...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Did you know it takes seven times more protein to bring a beef to market than that poor cow yields? <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Gee, I guess...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
And the conditions those cows have to endure! If you knew what it's like in a stockyard...Oh...here's something your should try.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(reading the label)<br />
<br />
Tempeh Burgerette...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
It's much better than the processed tofu. People see tofu on the label, and assume it's healthy, but they're putting so many additives into it these days...Omigosh...I'm sorry, I'm yakking your ear off.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh, no, thanks a ton. I'll give it a try...<br />
<br />
TERRY looks at the package quizzically. LISA resumes stocking. TERRY looks back up.<br />
<br />
...You must like working here, I mean, being into food and all that.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
I don't really work here-not for pay, anyway. It's like this-if you put in 4 hours a month, you get a 20% discount on groceries. It works out pretty good.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Soooo, what do you do the rest of the time?<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Well, sometimes I teach a yoga class at the Y. Mostly, I do massage therapy-I have my own practice. But it's been awfully slow lately...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yeah, I can imagine. Times are tough.<br />
<br />
LISA stands and faces TERRY.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
You know, what I love most of all is drumming.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wow, do you, like, play in a band?<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Gosh no...well, sort of...there's a group of us that gets together at the little park on Jefferson Street...it's pretty informal, but some of us are regulars. In fact, we're meeting tonight. You should stop by.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Gee, I don't know...<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Oh, come on! I'll bring an extra drum...you'll enjoy it. Here's my card...give me a call...or just stop by.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(reading from the card)<br />
<br />
OK..."Lisa"...maybe I'll check it out. Thanks a lot. Oh, and thanks for the advice on lunch.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
No problem...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Terry. Terry Wolfe.<br />
<br />
TERRY holds out his hand and SMILES. LISA takes his hand with both of hers and bows slightly.<br />
<br />
LISA<br />
<br />
Terry. Nice to meet you, Terry.<br />
<br />
(DRUMS)<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
EXT. A Community coop store - day<br />
<br />
(DRUMS continue)<br />
<br />
TERRY opens a paper bag and takes out the temper sandwich. He examines the wrapper again...<br />
<br />
(DRUMS rise to climax)<br />
<br />
...and lobs it into a trash can.<br />
<br />
CUT<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S APARTMENT - EVENING<br />
<br />
TERRY is slumped on his couch, stocking feet on a wooden cable spool that serves as a coffee table. From the TV, we hear, "Don't die, Blondie, I'll get you water. Stay there. Don't move, I'll get you water. Don't die until later..." He examines LISA's card, and flips it onto the table. Then, he leans forward and starts to put on his shoes.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
EXT. THE PARK ON JEFFERSON STREET - NIGHT<br />
<br />
DRUMMING is heard in the distance. TERRY is walking down the street. He approaches a group of drummers under and around a festive gazebo in the park.<br />
<br />
He sees LISA near the center of the group. She is playing frenetically, trading savage riffs with the TALL DRUMMER--a striking looking older man. They smile and say inaudible things to each other; the other drummers look on and follow them.<br />
<br />
TERRY pauses at the fringe and watches. The rhythm grows even more intense. He begins to move closer. LISA, transfixed on the TALL DRUMMER, does not notice him. <br />
<br />
Then, TERRY turns and walks away. LISA finally notices him and gestures and calls out, but TERRY does not hear. LISA continues to drum.<br />
<br />
TERRY walks back slowly, with his head down.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
EXT. SAVANNAH CONTRACTING - DAY<br />
<br />
(Adagio movement, Concerto for Harpsichord, Strings, and Continuo #3, JS Bach)<br />
<br />
TERRY looks at his watch, then at the sign over the door. He looks troubled. Enters.<br />
<br />
INT. SAVANNAH CONTRACTING - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY approaches THE OLD MAN's office. The door is open, and we see THE OLD MAN sitting at his desk, phone in hand.<br />
<br />
TERRY taps on the door jamb, and THE OLD MAN gestures for him to sit. TERRY nods and sits down quietly.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(into phone)<br />
<br />
Lou, I'm tellin' ya, we gotta have those cabinets on Thursday...Waddya mean, next week?...Lou...Lou... listen to me, Lou, you're fucking me with a limber prick and you ain't even kissing me...OK...OK...NO!...OK, Thursday, right...OK, then...I appreciate it.<br />
<br />
Slams down receiver.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Phew...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
You wanted to see me?<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Hello, Terry, how's it going?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
OK, I guess. Is everything alright?<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Terry, looking back on last Friday, you done good. Real good. As a matter of fact, I was proud of you. And then yesterday, you're an hour and a half late. My fucking phone is ringing like church bells at a Moonie wedding. Where's Terry, where's Terry. We're outta this, I can't find that. You think I got time to run out to your job and play nursemaid?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry Boss, my battery died...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(getting upset)<br />
<br />
Shit happens, Terry. And it ain't like this is the first time...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I know, Boss...but when I'm late, I always stay late and make up the time...sometimes I don't even put down the hours on my time sheet...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(getting hotter)<br />
<br />
God dammit, son, the rest of the entire world of construction commences at seven AM. Except for you. Dammit, boy, you get where I'm coming from?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes, sir.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(calming down)<br />
<br />
Terry, we've got good, hardworking people out there, but they need guidance. Without guidance, they're like children on a playground. They need you, Terry...I need you.<br />
<br />
TERRY, silent and still, looks intently into THE OLD MAN'S face.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(very calmly)<br />
<br />
Terry, tell me you hear what I'm saying.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I hear you.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
OK then.<br />
<br />
TERRY starts to RISE.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Wait a minute.<br />
<br />
TERRY sits back down<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
Carlos called a little while ago. He says he's short 26 boards.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
26 boards? I couldn't be that far off...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
That's what he said, 26 boards. 26 twelve footers. I need you to run down to the yard and pick up 26 twelve footers and get it out to him, pronto.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Boss, I can call the yard and have it delivered tomorrow...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
We need it now. Carlos said he'd wait out there to help you unload.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
But Boss, that's almost a ton of material...my shocks are shot, and my tires...<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
God DAMMIT!<br />
<br />
BANGS his fist on the desk so hard pencils jump on the floor.<br />
<br />
I don't give a skinny rat's ass about your goddam truck. You screwed up the estimate, and you gotta make it right. You got that?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(Rising)<br />
<br />
Yes, sir.<br />
<br />
THE OLD MAN<br />
<br />
(calm again)<br />
<br />
Son, you're wearing me out, you know that? You gotta decision to make, whether you want to keep this job or not. You with me? I hope you make the right decision.<br />
<br />
(CONCERTO rises again--the saddest strains)<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
EXT. LUMBER YARD - DAY<br />
<br />
(AVEN AVEN - Gypsy Kings)<br />
<br />
A forklift loaded with drywall is approaching TERRY's truck.<br />
<br />
FORKLIFT GUY<br />
<br />
Is no good, man. Gonna break you fokking axel.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Don't worry, just set'er down easy, nice and...EASY does it.<br />
<br />
The FORKLIFT GUY sets the load in the truck, and gently pushes it forward. The rear of the truck sags ominously, and two feet of board still hangs past the open tailgate. <br />
<br />
TERRY hunches down and peers under the bed of the truck<br />
<br />
Suave! I've got daylight under the springs.<br />
<br />
TERRY rocks the bed of the truck to prove it.<br />
<br />
FORKLIFT GUY<br />
<br />
Chiwow, Lobo. Usted es un hijo de puta loca.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Aieee! Mi burro viejo puede manejar! See you later, Tito!<br />
<br />
TERRY gets in the truck and drives off. The truck wallows in the ruts of the unpaved yard. He proceeds onto the main drag. A car swerves in front of him and he SLAMS on the brakes. Two rental DVD’s slide from the visor.<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Dag! More late fees!<br />
<br />
TERRY hangs a wicked U-turn, truck YAWING precipitously, and drives to the VIDEO STORE. <br />
<br />
SCENE 7 Ext. THE VIDEO STORE - Day<br />
<br />
He whips in front of the store and gets out, leaving the engine running. He starts to put the CD's in a slot in the door when he notices a woman inside waving to him. He peeks inside.<br />
<br />
INT. THE VIDEO STORE - day<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Hey, dork, that slot is for after-hours.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sorry, Don, I'm on the run<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
It's Donna to you, buster. And by the way, I've been holding that disc you asked me about for a week now.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
The Unforgiven?<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Unforgiven. No the. If you want it, you better take it now, or I need to put it back on the shelf.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Don, I really have to scramble...<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Yaknow, this is a popular disc, and every time I tell someone it's not available, I lose another customer to Netflix. I'm fighting a losing battle here, dude...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(glancing back to his truck)<br />
<br />
Sorry, I don't mean to mess you up. I'll take it now.<br />
<br />
DONNA bends at the waist to retrieve the disc from under the counter. As she leans, her top DROOPS, and TERRY cannot help glancing at her boobs. DONNA notices.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Hey, creep, no drooling on my counter.<br />
<br />
TERRY shoves his right fist under his shirt and bump-bumps over his heart.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(smiling)<br />
<br />
Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.<br />
<br />
DONNA rolls her eyes and hands him the disc and a receipt. TERRY starts to sign the receipt and looks up at DONNA.<br />
<br />
You wanna come over and watch it with me?<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
No thanks, bub, seen it twice. And anyway, I thought you were getting back together with Cortney.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I tried. I really tried. I think she did, too. But it hardly took anytime at all before we were fighting again, same old stupid shit. Stuff I don't even care about, until she presses the right button. Then, bam, I'm seeing red, and here we go again. It's like someone wrote a script for us...<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
...and you don't have any choice but to play the roles. Yadyada. <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Dammit, Don, it's true, it's like we don't even have a choice. I had to get out of there. <br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
I never understood why you got hitched in the first place. You were the brainy one, the big SAT score. Didn't you have a scholarship for, what, archeology...some hot shot school down south?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Architecture. Auburn. Anyway, that's water under the bridge.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Jeez, Terry, it's not too late...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Well, it's not in the cards for now, with my shitty salary, and child support on top of that.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Oh, that's right, you have a kid. My god, Terry, he must what, two or three years old...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(beaming)<br />
<br />
Almost six, and she's a girl. Her name is Juniper. She's going into first grade next week...it flips me out. She's a real, complete little person, totally cool...and smart...smarter than me, I think.<br />
<br />
TERRY pulls out his wallet and shows DONNA a photo.<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Oh, she's adorable! Juniper. Six years old...Terry, you were so young.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I know, I know. Everyone wanted us to make it go away. But I was a knucklehead about it. My father wouldn't even speak to me for months. And I leaned way too hard on Cortney...maybe that's why she's still so angry with me.<br />
<br />
DONNA admires the photo again and hands it back to TERRY<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
Juniper. Sometimes I wish I had my own...shit!...is that your truck out there?<br />
<br />
They look out the window. A meter maid approaches the truck.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Damn! Gotta go! But, hey, why don't you come over...I'll get a pizza and some...beer...<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
I'd like to sometime, Terry, but not right now. I'm sorta seeing someone...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Well, lucky guy, I guess...<br />
<br />
DONNA<br />
<br />
You better beat it, ragmop, look's like she's about to write you up.<br />
<br />
TERRY dashes out the door.<br />
<br />
EXT. THE VIDEO STORE - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY rushes up to the METER MAID.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, I just meant to drop off a movie...I'm leaving right now...<br />
<br />
METER MAID<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, too, I already entered your tag.<br />
<br />
METER MAID holds up an electronic device.<br />
<br />
Once I enter the number, I have to issue a ticket. And you're taking up two spaces, too.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
<br />
You mean you're giving me two tickets? That's seventy bucks!<br />
<br />
METER MAID<br />
<br />
Two spaces are two spaces.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I know, but you haven't entered the other ticket yet, have you? I can put a quarter in the meter.<br />
<br />
METER MAID<br />
<br />
Look, I'm just doing my job, sir.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'll put in fifty cents...<br />
<br />
TERRY fumbles in his pockets.<br />
<br />
I mean, if I have it...<br />
<br />
METER MAID glares at Terry and hands him a ticket, and starts to enter another.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh please, please, please give me a break...it will never happen again...I promise!<br />
<br />
TERRY gives METER MAID a goofy smile, she starts to crack up.<br />
<br />
METER MAID<br />
<br />
Alright, son, just this once. But if I see this truck again, parked like this, I'll...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Thankyouthankyouthankyou, I won't forget this...<br />
<br />
TERRY jumps in the truck and starts to pull away. He yells out the window at the METER MAID<br />
<br />
Thankyouthankyou...I love you!<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. YOUNG TERRY'S CAR - NIGHT<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sorry you didn't like it.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Well, it was pretty creepy. I mean, like, the ladies' room...ungghh...I didn't want to touch anything. But the burgers were pretty good.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yeah, and they didn't card us...<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
That's right, I forgot...your birthday isn't til August.<br />
<br />
They drive on in silence for a moment. TERRY turns on the radio.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Terry, I had fun tonight. Now that school is over, I feel like I'm getting to know you better.<br />
<br />
TERRY switches off the radio.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Cortney...I...I love you, Cortney.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Oh, Terry--please don't mean it--not that way...not the way I think you mean it...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I mean it, Cortney...I mean...I mean, what do you mean?<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
I mean, like, we've only been going together for a few weeks...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It'll be three months, tomorrow...<br />
<br />
Cortney<br />
<br />
See what I mean! We hardly know each other. And you're leaving for school soon, like, in Alabama, of all places! What's that going to be like, surrounded by those southern belles, and me up here, living with my 'rents...<br />
<br />
TERRY clams up, drives on, clenching the wheel with both hands. He turns on the radio again.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Terry? Terry, I'm sorry. I like you a lot. I really do, I think about you all the time...remember, in English class, when you recited that poem...<br />
<br />
TERRY turns off the radio.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
"Shall I, wasting in despair, die because a woman's fair..."<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Yeah, that's the one...it made me melt, Terry. I knew you were speaking to me.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
And I could see you start to cry. I think that's when I fell...<br />
<br />
Cortney<br />
<br />
Please don't say it, Terry. You're the nicest guy I know, but I'm not ready to get tied down yet. <br />
<br />
TERRY clams up again. CORTNEY turns toward him and places her left hand on TERRY's right arm.<br />
<br />
CORTNEY<br />
<br />
Terry.<br />
<br />
TERRY switches on the radio with his right arm. CORTNEY pulls her hand away.<br />
<br />
Terry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Can't we be friends? I mean, like really good friends?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
"Be she fairer than the day, or the flowery mead in May, If she be not so to me..."<br />
<br />
Terry and cortney, in unison<br />
<br />
"...What care I, how fair she be?"<br />
<br />
TERRY and CORTNEY both break out laughing.<br />
<br />
FADE<br />
<br />
INT. TERRY'S TRUCK - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY chuckles to himself. He approaches the...<br />
<br />
EXT. A NEW HOME CONSTRUCTION SITE - DAY<br />
<br />
TERRY drives up along side a new crew cab pickup truck. Carlos is in its drivers seat, with three other guys.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Ese, Carlos.<br />
<br />
Carlos<br />
<br />
Eh, Lobo, where you been, man? We just be leaving.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sorry, man, I got hung up. Come on, let's get this board into the house.<br />
<br />
CARLOS<br />
<br />
No way, 'migo. Is already way past four. We get it in the morning.<br />
<br />
CARLOS starts his engine and shifts into gear.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
But I have to be in the office first thing, to pick up the payroll. If I'm late, the Old Man will ream me a new asshole...<br />
<br />
CARLOS<br />
<br />
Sorry bout that, ese, we be waiting for you for two hours. I gotta pay these guys for sit around doin' nothing, count a you be late. I see you later...<br />
<br />
CARLOS pulls away. TERRY also starts to pull away, traveling down the street, but then backs up, pauses in front of the house, and then backs up the driveway.<br />
<br />
TERRY gets out and walks to the back of the truck. He tears the paper strip that binds the ends of a pair of boards into a book; then jerks the top board sideways to tear the front strip. He starts to pull the board out of the truck and pauses.<br />
<br />
Then he shoves the board back in, gets back in the truck, and backs up across the muddy, rutted front yard, up to the front door. His old truck lurches and wallows.<br />
<br />
TERRY proceeds to unload the boards one at a time. It begins to rain, big splats of water on the board and on his shirt. So he starts to carry the boards in pairs, struggling mightly.<br />
<br />
The rain intensifies. TERRY struggles, slipping and sliding in the mud.<br />
<br />
Finally he finishes unloading. He completely muddy up to his knees, and his soaked shirt clings to his back. He pauses, panting, under the small front porch roof. The rain slacks off.<br />
<br />
TERRY hunches his shoulders and turns his head from side to side, trying to loosen his muscles--when he hears from a distance...<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
Terry! Is that you?<br />
<br />
ROBIN has driven up to the curb. TERRY sees her and waves. ROBIN starts to get out of her car.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hi, Robin. Hey, don't get out, it's pretty muddy...<br />
<br />
ROBIN pops up a huge fancy umbrella and tiptoes in her high heels up some planks laid in the mud. She is carrying a tote bag.<br />
<br />
ROBIN reaches the little stoop and furls the umbrella. She and TERRY must stand close together to stay out of the rain.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
Hi Terry, I was hoping to find you here. I brought you a little something, to say thanks for all you've done.<br />
<br />
ROBIN slips a bottle of champaigne halfway out of her bag.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Gee, Robin, thanks, but I'm just doing my job...<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
No, Terry, everything is coming out great. Really great. And I hate to say it, but I'm so glad I'm working with you and not with your boss...I shouldn't say any more. Let's go inside. I have some glaaa-sses! <br />
<br />
ROBIN smiles provocatively. TERRY backs up against the door.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I dunno, Robin. I mean, thanks, thanks a lot, but I'm soaked to the bone. I need to get cleaned up...<br />
<br />
TERRY starts to move around and winces sharply.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
ROBIN sets down her tote bag.<br />
<br />
Terry! Are you all right?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(recovering somewhat)<br />
<br />
I'm ok, my back is a little sore, that's all.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
ROBIN places her hand on his chest.<br />
<br />
Where does it hurt, Terry, maybe I can do some...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
It's really nothing, Robin, but I better get going. Maybe some other time...<br />
<br />
TERRY winces again, and his knee partially buckles.<br />
<br />
ROBIN<br />
<br />
Terry!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, I should go...<br />
<br />
ROBIN backs off and TERRY sidles around her and gets back in his truck. ROBIN remains standing on the porch, her expression saddening as TERRY pulls away.<br />
<br />
FADEUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-2486689366113320822010-08-11T17:23:00.000-04:002010-08-11T17:23:25.215-04:00Treatment for ScreenplayLIMITS OF DISTURBANCE©<br />
By Alan Abrams<br />
All Rights Reserved<br />
August 12, 2010<br />
***ACT ONE***<br />
1. A NEW HOME CONSTRUCTION SITE<br />
(WILL THE WOLF SURVIVE-LOS LOBOS)<br />
TERRY Wolfe pulls a stack of about 6 very long 2x4's off a truck and gracefully balances them on his shoulder. He walks to some saw horses and deftly flips them off his shoulder onto the horses, landing in a neat stack with a THWACK. <br />
Terry goes back and loads his shoulder again with more 2x's.<br />
THE OLD MAN and the ARCHITECT arrive, greet Terry. T--wearing ear buds--is surprised and swings around--the 2x's arcing toward the Architect's head. The A has to hastily duck, looking hopelessly awkward--dropping the plans he was carrying. T loses his grip and the studs CLATTER to the ground. <br />
Terry gathers the studs, the Architect gathers his plans; The Old Man is disgusted; he asks T if ROBIN, the owner, has showed up yet. No she hasn't, sir. TOM and the A go inside to inspect the house. <br />
Upstairs, they discover a change in the floor plan and angrily call for Terry, who is acting as a superintendent. The workers pickup the call: Yo, Wolfman! Esse, Lupe! Then they gather around to witness Terry get chewed out, or maybe fired. <br />
Terry goes in, distraught, and explains the plans had a bust, and if the master bath was framed per plan, there would not be sufficient headroom for the stairs. So he relocated the bathroom. The architect protests: this is impossible, this has been checked and double checked. We don't make bushleague mistakes like that...<br />
Just as it appears Terry will get the axe, ROBIN, the owner walks in. She greets the Architect and TOM formally, but when she sees Terry she beams, goes over and air kisses him.<br />
TOM explains that they were talking about the location of the bathroom. He says they will make it right. Meanwhile the A is studying the plans--then takes a tape measure and measures various conditions.<br />
Robin intervenes and explains that Terry discovered the bust, and proposed the solution to her. "I loooove what Terry did. It's where I wanted the bathroom in the first place." TOM's face shows conflicted emotions.<br />
The PLUMBER chimes in that the change actually saved money. The frazzled Architect admits he blew it.<br />
TOM protests that the plans will need to be revised before inspection. The A says it will take a week to redraft and refile. TOM is now livid. Terry explains that the inspector came earlier this morning. "He had no problem with the change." T pulls the green sticker out of his pocket. Grudgingly, TOM thanks T for working it out.<br />
2. THE COOP<br />
(WRONG TO LOVE YOU-CHRIS ISAAK)<br />
TERRY is perusing the aisles looking for something for lunch. He encounters LISA, who is stocking the shelves. She criticizes his choices for lunch (she is vegan and a nutrition freak). <br />
They discuss their jobs--Terry's office is nearby; Lisa volunteers at the Coop to get a discount, and has a massage therapy practice. She gives Terry her card.<br />
Finally, she persuades T to try a tofu burger. He leaves the store and takes a bite of the sandwich, makes a face, and tosses in a trash can. <br />
3. THE OFFICE<br />
The Old Man is frustrated with Terry. Terry shows great promise--he's great with owners, smart, and reasonably skillful. But the quality of his work is erratic, and he shows up late way too often. <br />
Terry argues that he stays late, even putting in extra time he doesn't report, but The Old Man goes on how "the rest of the fucking world of construction starts at 7am, and you will too, if you want this fucking job." <br />
Then he orders Terry to pick up some sheetrock (Terry had undersetimated how much was needed) and deliver it to the NEW HOME SITE. Terry bitches about having to use his own truck, which needs new shocks and tires, and The Old Man almost loses it, telling Terry to take responsibility for his bone headed mistake, or to "pack your fucking tools in your precious fucking truck and and don't come back."<br />
4. THE PICKUP<br />
(AVEN AVEN-GYPSY KINGS)<br />
At the lumber yard, Terry, speaking conversational Spanish, orders the fork lift operator to load his battered pickup truck with 12' long sheetrock, until the bed is setting on the axles. The lift operator protests, but Terry insists. Loaded to the max, Terry drives away, truck wallowing in the ruts.<br />
Now he's rolling up a wide urban avenue, and has to stop short. His drink spills in his lap, and a rental DVD falls from the sun visor. He realizes it's overdue, and makes an abrupt U-turn, the overloaded truck pitching dangerously.<br />
He then hastily parks in front of the:<br />
5. THE VIDEO SHOP<br />
(SAVE ME-kd lang)<br />
Terry greets DONNA--a gorgeous brown-skinned woman of interdeterminate race, calling her Don. Donna acts offended; we are not sure how serious she is. <br />
They discuss an Eastwood flick; Donna has reserved a disc for Terry. She bends to reach it and Terry cannot help leering down her top. Donna notices, saying "Quit drooling on the counter, creep." <br />
Terry, undeterred, hits on her in a mild way. Donna begs off; she is "sorta seeing someone."<br />
She then asks about CORTNEY, T's estranged wife. T explains that they are completely incompatible, driving one another to excessive drinking and fighting. <br />
Terry then proudly mentions his daughter, JUNIPER. Donna refers back to their high school days, when T was a promising student.<br />
Terry recalls how he persuaded Cortney, who wanted an abortion, to have the baby--and now how happy he is to be Juniper's father. <br />
Donna makes polite inquiry on Juniper's progress, then talks about her own niece--and Terry spaces out to a...<br />
6. FLASHBACK: TERRY AND CORTNEY<br />
Terry (younger, in neater hair, and shaved face) walks down a high school hallway. A young woman--Cortney--catches up with him. <br />
They discuss their plans for college; T has a scholarship at the local state school; C's going to a small school in New England. All the while she is flirtacious.<br />
INSERT A REWRITE OF THE SCENE IN THE PARK...with Cortney instead of Cindy...and instead of being interrupted, they make love at the edge of the creek.<br />
CUT BACK TO:<br />
7. THE VIDEO SHOP<br />
Donna notices that Terry is not listening. She warns him that the METER MAID is approaching his truck and he dashes out the door.<br />
Terry confronts the MM--a weary, portly, elderly woman--but she has already started to write a ticket--which therefore must be issued. His truck, with the load hanging out the back, takes up nearly two spaces. He negotiates a single fine, instead of fines for both meters. She is reluctant until Terry gives her that same goofy smile--and she melts. Terry expresses his gratitude, and heads off to:<br />
8. A NEW HOME CONSTRUCTION SITE<br />
Terry pulls up at the site. CARLOS, the chiroquero (sheetrock sub) is in his ragged out Corolla, ready to leave the site. Terry asks if C can help unload--C replies he's waited too long already, and has to pay his guys for fokking nothing. <br />
C suggests T come back in the morning when his own guys can help--T considers it, but says he'll catch hell if he's not in the office first thing.<br />
There are two HELPERS in the car. As C continues to dump on T, the HELPER in the back seat pulls a sixpack of Dos Equis from cooler and Carlos roars away.<br />
He backs his truck up to the door, and begins unloading one board at a time. But it begins to rain, and he unloads the rest two sheets at a time.<br />
When he's finished--and thoroughly soaked--he gets back in the truck and tries to leave--but the tires slip in the wet mud. He floors it, and the truck starts to move, slinging mud across the front of the house. He curses and drives away.<br />
On his way home, he picks up some beer, some doritos, and some bean dip.<br />
9. TERRY’S APARTMENT<br />
Terry lives in the basement of a five-unit apartment house--it's a dingy studio apartment with low ceilings--you can practically smell the mildew. Still, it is neat. <br />
His back is hurting and he takes some aspirin, and takes a steaming hot shower. <br />
Then he sets up the beer and chips on wooden cable spool that serves as the coffee table, and puts on the Eastwood flick--UNFORGIVEN.<br />
BEAT<br />
We see Terry, eyelids heavy, with 5 empty beer cans on the table, and one in his hand. Hackman is kicking the bejeezus out of Eastwood...and Terry passes out.<br />
BEAT<br />
It's morning. Terry stirs, and sets down the half empty can. As he reaches, his back pops out and he cringes.<br />
He struggles to get his footing, but cannot stand. So he slithers on the floor to the bathroom, and struggles into the tub to relieve himself. Then, laying in the tub, he showers again.<br />
Finally he can stand. He calls The Old Man to excuse him from work. TOM is pissed, and concerned that T will file a workers comp claim. T assures him he won't, that he just needs a day to recover.<br />
T, in agony, remember's Lisa's card. He calls her and makes an appointment for a massage. She schedules him for 5pm<br />
T then finds some Tylenol 3 and gobbles the last two tabs, and drinks the last beer. He turns back on Unforgiven and settles down to watch again.<br />
BEAT<br />
Terry has passed out. When he awakes, it is already late for his massage appointment. <br />
***ACT TWO***<br />
10. THE JOURNEY<br />
Terry--still in pain, not to mention, mildly blitzed--is shocked and embarrassed at the time. He gimps to the truck, and winces with pain as he works the clutch.<br />
He arrives at the address Lisa gave him--a modest bungalow on a tree lined street. The walk runs along the neighbor's chain link fence...as he passes along the fence, the neighbor's huge, vicious dog runs up, barking furiously. It rears up on the fence and snaps at Terry, who lurches away.<br />
Terry pauses and speaks calmly and affectionately to the dog. He offers his hand for the dog to sniff. The dog snaps at it. Terry speaks even more soothingly, and offers his hand again. This time the dog makes a high pitched noise and licks his hand.<br />
Terry hobbles up the front porch steps, and works his way around children's paraphenalia, and knocks. A man in business dress and loosened tie answers. A woman with an infant in arms can be seen beyond.<br />
Terry assumes he's at the wrong house and apologizes...the man explains that Lisa lives in his basement apartment and directs Terry around the side. "Watch out for the dog; he's dangerous," he warns.<br />
Lisa's entrance is in the back, under a small sundeck. He walks down some steps to a well surrounded by a brick wall. A cat, poised in a sunny spot on the wall, observes Terry walking down the steps.<br />
Just as he raises his knuckles to knock, Lisa opens the door and steps out. She is pissed that he is late. "I should charge you for a no-show." Terry apologizes profusely, almost debasing himself. She is unmoved. <br />
Finally, he give her the smile. She can't help not smiling back. Noticing his awkward posture, she orders him to turn around.<br />
She untucks his shirt and placing one hand on his shoulder, slides her other hand under the shirt, up and down his back. He winces. "Your sacro's really in spasm, I can feel the heat," she reports. "You better come in."<br />
As they go in the door, the cat, which had nonchalantly taken all that in, scootches in between their legs.<br />
11. THE MASSAGE<br />
Lisa walks Terry through her apartment. They pass through a funky but tidy and bright kitchen, with a small table with two chairs--then through her bedroom--decorated with pillows, candles, and draped fabrics. <br />
Beyond is the massage room--just large enough to walk around the massage table. On the wall at the head of the table is a print of Lakshmi and Vishnu, carried on the back of Garuda.<br />
Lisa tells Terry to undress and lie on his back. "You can keep your shorts on if you wish. (he does) Call me when you're ready."<br />
When she returns, she plays a recording of ragas by Akbar Ali Khan. Terry admires Lisa's legs, visible through her gauzy pants when the light is behind her. She begins the massage. Terry looks up and notes the silhouette of her breasts, and the hair under her arms. <br />
Lisa comments on Terry's collar bone--broken some time ago, while bicycling (while his driver's license was suspended)--the bone had not set properly. T considers it a deformity. "You have a beautiful body," says L. T returns the compliment. <br />
Lisa lectures Terry on all manner of health issues--diet, staying hydrated, stretching, etc, while Terry stares at the picture, imagining himself with...Lakshmi?..Lisa? The music--amzingly sensual--intensifies...T spaces out and has a...<br />
12. FLASHBACK: <br />
INSERT A REWRITE OF THE SCENE IN THE PARK...with Cortney instead of Cindy...and instead of being interrupted, they make love at the edge of the creek. No cops in this version.<br />
<br />
(see previous post: "Disturbance, Updated) <br />
<br />
CUT BACK TO:<br />
13. THE MASSAGE<br />
The massage is completed; Lisa leaves the room. Terry dresses--clearly the pain is relieved--and finds L in the kitchen. She offers him water and invites him to sit at the little table.<br />
14. THE KISS<br />
They sit down together. Lisa continues talking about diet. Terry should cut back on sodium. He needs to strengthen his core muscles, and stretch before exertion.<br />
As she lectures, the cat jumps into Terry's lap. T strokes its fur, and it nestles comfortably into his crotch. Lisa notices; Terry gives her the goofy smile.<br />
Lisa stops talking, and out of the blue, asks if she can kiss him. T is speechless, and L leans across the table and kisses him. T is still surprised, and somewhat impassive.<br />
Lisa kisses him again, and this time, T responds. Things get warmer. But as T shifts to get closer, the cat leaps away with a thump.<br />
At that sound, Lisa freezes up. "You have to go now," she tells him, without explanation. Terry sputters, stunned, apologetic. Becoming tense, she insists he leave immediately.<br />
Terry is embarassed and offers to pay her. Lisa cuts him off: "JUST...GO!" Terry stands and accidently knocks his chair over. Lisa sobs loudly. Terry goes out the door. <br />
As Terry passes from under the deck, he sees the homeowner and his wife leaning over the edge...he calls up to them, "Nothing happened..NOTHING!." As he passes along the fence, the dog lunges at him, barking ferociously...it continues to bark, even as he gets into his truck.<br />
***ACT THREE***<br />
15. THE VIDEO SHOP<br />
Terry stops in to rent another DVD. He hits on Donna again, who repeats that she's "sorta seeing someone." While in the aisle, he overhears Donna on the phone arranging a date--he is reassured that she is not just blowing him off.<br />
Then, a reprise of the meter maid.<br />
16. THE OFFICE<br />
The Old Man hands Terry a letter that came to him C/O the office. To Terry's surprise, it's from Lisa, apologizing for her abrupt behavior, and proposing they go out for dinner--to an Indian restaurant that features vegetarian fare. It closes with the salutation, "Namaste."<br />
17. TERRY’S MOM’S HOUSE<br />
Terry is on the couch watching an Orioles game. His mom is doing his laundry.<br />
Mom asks Terry if he can reconcile with Cortney--no way. She misses Juniper, and gazes at her photo on a wall hung with family portraits. Terry glances up at a photo of his dad, and goes into a:<br />
18. FLASHBACK: Terry and his father<br />
Terry and Dad are a grungy pub. The waitress brings two beers [refers back to first flashback]. Dad is wearing a battered tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.<br />
They discuss Terry's situation with Cortney--Dad bluntly urges Terry to let Cortney go ahead with an abortion. The conversation gets nasty.<br />
19. TERRY'S MOM'S HOUSE<br />
Mom picks up Terry's beer can and wiggles it. "Can I bring you another, darling?" "Yeah, ma," he replies distractedly.<br />
Mom pleads with Terry to bring Juniper to visit. Then she reminds him that he promised to repair the toilet in her basement. With his annoyance, Terry shows an immature side of his personality.<br />
20. TERRY'S APARTMENT<br />
Terry calls Lisa--a tube of construction adhesive burst on the seat of his truck--he cannot pick her up for their date. Lisa offers to pick him up, and reminds him to be on time.<br />
20.A. FLASHBACK: CORTNEY IS PREGNANT<br />
Terry and Cortney are in the back seat of a car parked in the woods. They are making out like crazy, steaming up the windows. <br />
Cortney abruptly pulls away, red faced, panting. Terry protests, "It's OK, I brought a rubber this time."<br />
Cortney starts to weep. "It's too late."<br />
They discuss her pregnancy. Cortney wants to end it. She does not want to be a mother; it will wreck their educations. Terry says he'll stand by her. "You'll make a great mom," he tells her.<br />
They debate the issue on many levels, individual, political, and moral. Terry makes no headway, until he gives Cortney the goofiest smile. Cortney starts to melt and asks, "But Terry, do you really love me?" He assures her that he does, but we are not convinced.<br />
<br />
21. LATER IN TERRY'S APARTMENT<br />
Terry gets out of the shower and dresses. He pulls his father's tweed jacket from the closet. Putting it on, he has another...<br />
22. FLASHBACK: Terry, Dad, and baby juniper<br />
Dad is in a hospice bed, pale and weak. He gestures and Terry places Juniper on his chest. The child is contented and snuggles comfortably.<br />
Dad seems revived. He is reconciled with Terry; in his crude way, he gives Terry a final blessing.<br />
23. TERRY'S APARTMENT<br />
Terry notices the time, and hurriedly stuffs his sunglasses, wallet and cell phone into the jacket pocket, and dashes out.<br />
He observes an ancient Mercedes station wagon pull up in front, and struggle to parallel park. Terry approaches the car--glare on the window prevents him from seeing the driver.<br />
Finally the car stops, two feet from the curb. The window rolls down--it's Lisa.<br />
24. STEELY<br />
Terry gets in. Lisa greets him with a long deep kiss. Her skirt hikes way up and Terry is embarrassed. Lisa suddenly breaks off the kiss: "We're going to miss the early bird."<br />
T comments on the car. L has named it Steely. She explains that it was a gift from an elderly client...part of her practice is geriatric--hauling a portable table to the patient's home. Mr Steel willed the car to her, so it would be easier for L to haul her table around.<br />
It's warm, and Lisa does not like the AC. Terry takes off his jacket and carefully places it in the back seat. They park near the restaurant. [Lisa backs over the curb, etc]<br />
They walk into the sun. Lisa puts on a huge pair of sunglasses, woefully out of fashion. Terry gropes for his shades, but they are in the jacket.<br />
25. THE RESTAURANT<br />
It's dark inside--before T's eyes recover from the sun, he almost collides with a waiter carrying a full tray. The waiter pirouettes, narrowly avoiding catastrophe. He sees Lisa across the room, chucklng at his clumsiness.<br />
They dine. Lisa describes the esoteric dishes. Terry notices a poster on the wall, similar to the one in L's massage room. Lisa discusses the Hindu pantheon, and T starts conflating the names of foods and gods.<br />
Lisa excuses herself. When she returns from the restroom, we see her for the first time with her hair down--although she still seems severe and somewhat frumpy, the change is vivid, and the intent is clear.<br />
[Khan's raga plays again]<br />
They sit together, and hold hands. L runs her hand up and down Terry's arm. T looks up at the poster of Vishnu and Lakshmi. They gaze into one another's eyes. Then the same waiter T almost bowled over arrives with the check.<br />
Lisa reaches for the check, but T stops her hand and takes the check. Then he gropes for his wallet--and realizes he left it in the car.<br />
Embarrassed, he askes L for the carkey, and dashes out of the restaurant.<br />
26. STEELY<br />
Terry reaches the car. As he opens the door he hears his cell phone ring. The call is from Cortney. Both sides of the conversation can be heard.<br />
C wants to know where the support payment is. She is angry and her language is full of invective. The payment is way overdue, and he had promised todrop it off days ago. She demands he deliver it immediately, and makes serious threats--including having his wages garnished--if he does not bring her the check before 6:00 pm this evening.<br />
Terry protests, the bank is already closed, he's got the check and will drop it off in the morning, etc; she is adamant, clearly serious about her threats. It's twenty til 6; she lives just a few blocks away. <br />
Terry climbs behind the wheel and takes off. He tries to call the restaurant to get word to Lisa that he'll be back in a few minutes--but still confusing foods and gods--gets the name boggled up, and the information clerk cannot find the number.<br />
27. CORTNEY’S HOUSE<br />
Cortney is on the front stoop; Juniper, about 5 YO, is is leaning sideways, clinging to C's belt. When J sees Terry, she squeals and races down the walk toward him. T hoists her up on his shoulders.<br />
T hands over the check. C reminds T he had promised earlier to take J for ice cream, to celebrate starting kindergarten. J is giidy at the prospect-she wants "Rocky road, wocky woad, wockity toad..."<br />
T lamely tries to beg off, but caves in. T & J get into...<br />
28. STEELY<br />
They discuss ice cream; more permutations of wocky woad. T tells J he must first drop her off at his mom's and return the car. Then he can return and take her for ice cream.<br />
J wants an explanation. T confesses that he made some mistakes in judgement--some bad decisions.<br />
J asks if she herself was a bad decision. "Where did you get that idea," he asks her. "Mom said so..."<br />
Terry reassures Juniper--he's made many bad decisions, but she is the happiest thing in his life. They reach...<br />
29. TERRY'S MOM'S HOUSE<br />
Mom is ecstatic to see Juniper. But she hounds Terry about the toilet--now, the shutoff handle broke off, and the valve is leaking into a bucket which has to be emptied every hour.<br />
Terry can't find the tool box--Mom reminds him he made off with it afer Dad died. He rummages through Steely's trunk and finds a rusty pair of pliers, and after injuring his hand and ruining his shirt and pants, T stops the leak. He returns to...<br />
30. THE RESTAURANT<br />
Terry pulls up and parks in front of the restaurant. He dashes and finds the waiter. He tells T that Lisa paid the check and left in a cab.<br />
Terry goes outside and the police have arrived. Terry is arrested for car theft. The waiter appears, adding that T stiffed L for the check. As T is cuffed and escorted to the squad car, the cop notes that he parked in a handicap space, which is going to cost him $250, on top of whatever else he faces.<br />
***EPILOGUE***<br />
31. THE VIDEO SHOP<br />
Terry walks in and Donna gives him the hairy eyeball. She produces a clipping of an article in the paper, titled "A Bad First Impression."<br />
Terry reads the article, which concludes with a quote from the defense attorney: "Mr Wolfe is a very nice man who made some bad decisions."<br />
Donna asks if it's true. T recaps the highlights of the story and the aftermath. The charge was reduced to unauthorized use of a motor vehicle. Cortney was persuaded to drop a motion to restrict visitation.<br />
Also, T decided to go back to school. The Old Man will pay for drafting classes, if he passes. And if he does well, maybe he'll go on to study architecture.<br />
Then he hits on Donna one more time. D flashes a diamond ring. T congratulates her, and asks who is the lucky guy.<br />
D reveals that she is marrying another woman. T is initially surprised--"I knew my chances were slim, but I never realized how slim..." Donna replies, she could go for T, if she weren't the way she is.<br />
They hug. T tells D, with her in his arms, he wishes he were a woman. D shoves him away in mock anger. Then she says, "Now get your sorry ass out of my shop before I slug you!"<br />
T tells her he loves her. D replies she loves him too. Then D warns T that the meter maid is walking toward his truck.<br />
T rushes out, and D watches through the store window, as a new meter maid approaches T. The new MM is comely and shapely. We cannot hear them, but we see Terry gesticulate, and MM hand him a ticket. Then they laugh. They chatter away, both gesticulating, and we see them exchange numbers into their cell phones. MM walks away, smiling and waving to T, who stands there waving back.<br />
The camera recedes and picks up D, who turns from the window and walks back to her counter, with a smile on her face.<br />
FADE OUT.<br />
ALT ENDING: Terry visits the video store with very happy Juniper, who has a big sloppy ice cream...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-43817454207391960132010-07-06T11:15:00.001-04:002010-07-06T11:20:50.174-04:00Disturbance, updatedFADE IN:<br />
<br />
Ext. A Wooded Lane - Night<br />
<br />
The driving rhythm of Chris Isaak's "Wrong To Love You." A pickup truck winds along the lane. A young man is driving, and a young woman is sitting close to him.<br />
<br />
INT. TRUCK CAB - CONTINUOUS<br />
<br />
"Wrong To Love You" continues on the radio. The young woman lays her head on the young man's shoulder, but he concentrates on driving. Ignoring her, he starts getting into the music. She gets annoyed and turns off the radio.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
That place was weird, Terry. I mean the burger was delish, but what a dive! Down those creepy steps, the pipes hanging from the ceiling... <br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I know, maybe that's why I like it. You just go there, you don't have to be anybody, you just go there and be yourself.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
but ewwww, the lady's room--I didn't want to touch anything. And that waitress, the way she leaned over to take your order, I thought her boobs were going to fall out on the table.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Oh, that's just Sara. That's the way she is--it doesn't mean anything. <br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
She seemed to know you pretty well. Did you like, ever go out with her?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
You gotta be kidding. She's been there forever--used to do that same routine for my old man, back when he would take us there. He'd order himself two beers, and she knew to serve one to me, even though I was only 16 or 17.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Sorry, guy, I should'na brought it up. Thanks for taking me, though. It was kinda nice to talk, and get to know you a little. And the pie was pretty good, too.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yeah, it was OK.<br />
<br />
Terry clams up and drives on. Cindy gazes out her side window for a while and then shifts in her seat toward Terry.<br />
<br />
cindy<br />
<br />
What's up, Terry, you seem a million miles away.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, it's been a long week. Sometimes I think the old man gets off on riding my ass.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Cheer up, guy, it's Friday<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yeah, and I gotta work tomorrow. We're a week behind schedule with the trim work.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
So why do you work for that guy? He sounds like a complete jerk.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Who knows? It's not like I don't have a support payment due every month. Funny thing is, the other day he was ragging at me for something, some sloppy miter joint I think, and he reminded me of my old man.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
He's dead know, right? Your dad, I mean.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yeah, massive stroke, about five years ago. Bam, just like that. He died right after Juniper was born. At least he got to see her.<br />
<br />
Cindy sighs. Terry bobs his head and taps the wheel, still hearing the song in his head. They drive on in silence for a while.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Sorry, kid, guess I'm not much of a first date.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
That's why you gotta relax tonight, Terry. Why don't you find somewhere to park?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
You mean here?<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Yeah, here, somewhere-anywhere. Why not?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I dunno, Cindy, I guess cause...<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
(with a devilish look)<br />
<br />
'Cause I got something you might like.<br />
<br />
Terry turns toward her, frowning. Cindy pulls an Altoids tin from her purse and opens it, and shows him the contents. The tin holds several generous joints and some strike anywhere matches. Terry's eyes light up.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wow, Where'd you get those? I haven't seen any of that stuff since high school.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Omigod, Terry, where you been keeping yourself, under some rock?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Jeez, Cindy, Cortney never liked it, and after Juniper was born, things were different.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Cortney! I can't figure what you were doing with that bitch anyway.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(looks downcast)<br />
<br />
That's not fair<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Well, from the stories I've heard about her...she sure sounds like one to me. Did she really come after you with a knife?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(surprised))<br />
<br />
Where'd'you hear that?<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Word gets around, Terry.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(Exasperated)<br />
<br />
God, what else do you know? Nevermind--don't answer that. Anyway, it was a salad fork.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Still, it sounds pretty scary.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
We'd been drinking, you know.<br />
<br />
There is a lull in the conversation, and they drive on.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Do you still drink a lot?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Once in a while--but not like that anymore. Not since we broke up. You know, she wasn't always like that. She's pretty young to be a mom. I guess I haven't been Mr Wonderful, either...a college dropout, carpenter's helper, not much of anything.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
(I'm sorry, Terry, you know what I mean. Come on, let's pull over. Look, up ahead.<br />
<br />
(pointing ahead to a parking area)<br />
<br />
<br />
Terry pulls off at the parking area. A sign reads "NO PARKING AFTER SUNSET."<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Uh-oh. We better go.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Don't worry, nothing's gonna happen.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I dunno about this. It's the old man's truck.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Terry! You're such a stick in the mud. You need some of this weed, it's frickin' awesome!<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Well, we can't smoke it here. We're sitting ducks for a cop.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Doofuss! I didn't mean right here.<br />
<br />
Cindy reaches over and puts the Altoids tin in his shirt pocket and kisses his cheek. Then she slides away and opens her door.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Come with me. I think I know a place we can go.<br />
<br />
Cindy springs out of the truck. Terry grabs the keys and gets out.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
What the...hey! Where are you going...<br />
<br />
EXT. A PARKING AREA - CONTINUOUS<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Hey, wait up!<br />
<br />
Cindy dances off toward a gap in the trees and turns toward Terry.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Yo, slowpoke! Follow me, comeon!<br />
<br />
Terry dashes after her. Cindy pauses and takes his hand, and leads him into the woods.<br />
<br />
EXT. A WOODED PATH LEADING DOWN TO A CREEK - CONTINUOUS<br />
<br />
Cindy skips and bounds down the path, laughing, while holding Terry's hand. She reaches the bank and stops shortly, grabs his hand with both of hers and swings Terry toward the creek. He stuttersteps toward the creek and regains his balance by pulling her toward him, until they are almost embracing, tottering at the bank.<br />
<br />
EXT. A CREEK - CONTINUOUS<br />
<br />
Breaking away, Cindy shrieks with laughter and tiptoes out onto some rocks in the creek. Once again she takes Terry's hand and leads him along.<br />
<br />
They go maybe halfway across and find there are no more rocks within reach.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Oh dear. Well, I think there's a bridge somewhere. Let's go back.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(blocking her path)<br />
<br />
No way, kid, not now!<br />
<br />
Terry scoops Cindy up in his arms, effortlessly, like he would lift a child. Then, carrying her, he plunges into the water, well above his knees.<br />
<br />
Cindy kicks her legs up, slinging arcs of water, and squeals with delight, hugging him tightly around his neck.<br />
<br />
EXT. THE FAR SIDE OF THE CREEK - CONTINUOUS<br />
<br />
They reach the other side, a sandy spot, sort of a nook defined by boulders and vegetation. The moon illuminates the two figures, partially obscured by branches.<br />
<br />
Terry gently sets her down. Cindy, viewed from behind, keeps her arms around his neck, and Terry, somewhat gingerly, holds her, just touching lightly her on the shoulders. She leans into him and kisses him, and backs away.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Terry, I take back what I said about being a stick in the mud. Do you forgive me?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I guess so--I mean no--I mean I was sorta agreeing with you.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Oh Terry! You're too much. Hey, fire up a number. It'll help get your head out of your butt.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wow. I really mean it, I haven't done any pot since I was 18.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Oh come on. I'm tellin' ya, this is some nice stuff.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
OK, for old time's sake.<br />
<br />
Terry takes the tin from his pocket and removes a joint and a match. He puts the joint in his mouth and strikes the match against the boulder, and lights up. When he gets it going, he passes it to Cindy.<br />
<br />
Cindy takes a dainty hit, with the sound of air hissing between her lips. She smiles and passes it back.<br />
<br />
Terry takes a massive hit and holds it in. His eyes are scrunched shut and his cheeks bulge. Then he leans his head back and lets it out slowly, issuing a long stream of smoke.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wooo-oooohhh! Oh man! What a rush.<br />
<br />
They pass the joint back and forth a few times, giggling.<br />
<br />
CUT TO:<br />
<br />
EXT. A WOODED LANE - CONTINUOUS<br />
<br />
A police car driving down the lane, approaches the parking area.<br />
<br />
CUT TO:<br />
<br />
EXT. THE FAR SIDE OF THE CREEK - CONTINUOUS<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Wooohhh, that went straight to my head.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
Me too. Feelin' a little better?<br />
<br />
Terry does not reply. He sets the roach on the boulder and faces her. This time he initiates an embrace, and they kiss again.<br />
<br />
Cindy pulls back a little and smartly pulls her t-shirt over her head, and drops it. She shakes out her hair, and reaching back, unsnaps her bra, and lets it fall away. She is still facing away, towards Terry, but what is seen of her back is shapely and alluring.<br />
<br />
Shuddering ever so slightly, Terry pulls back to admire her. He runs his hands along her shoulders and down her arms.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
You are so beautiful.<br />
<br />
Cindy smiles and unbuttons his shirt. Terry slips it off and sets it on the boulder. He is lean, but chiseled. His eyes are fixed on her as he picks up the roach and takes another hit. They kiss again, languidly, completely absorbed in one another.<br />
<br />
CUT TO:<br />
<br />
EXT. A PARKING AREA - CONTINUOUS<br />
<br />
The police car pulls in next to the truck. A short blond policewoman gets out with her flashlight and investigates the truck. Her hair is in a bun. She has the stiff rolling gait of a small person encumbered by body armor, a sidearm, and other equipment--but not without a little swagger in her move, too. Even so, she is vaguely attractive.<br />
<br />
She places her hand on the hood of the truck and finds it warm. Then she raises her head and twitches her nose.<br />
<br />
She walks over to the passenger side of the police car and makes a "roll down the window" gesture. The window rolls down.<br />
<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
(to someone inside, unseen)<br />
<br />
Tom, you smell something?<br />
<br />
Policeman Tom's head leans out the window. He is not wearing a hat, and a bald spot is visible on the back of his head.<br />
<br />
POLICEMAN TOM<br />
<br />
No, Anne. What's up?<br />
<br />
She sniffs the air.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
I think I smell a bust.<br />
<br />
POLICEMAN TOM<br />
<br />
You sure?<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
Pretty. Check it out yourself.<br />
<br />
POLICEMAN TOM<br />
<br />
I can't smell shit. I got allergies. This goddam park beat makes it worse, too.<br />
<br />
She wrinkles her nose again.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
Now I'm sure. Come on, Tom, let's go crash the party.<br />
<br />
The car door swings open and a burly, weary cop gets out and puts on his hat. He is so heavy the car rises up noticeably when he stands.<br />
<br />
Policeman Tom crinkles his nose. He notices the smell and pauses. Then, the sound of giggling is heard. Both officers turn in the direction of the creek.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
It sounds like they're across the creek. There's a bridge just up to the right. Keep your light off--let's not scare'em away.<br />
<br />
Policewoman Anne moves out in a stealthy crouch; Policeman Tom plods along after her, arms out, struggling to keep his footing.<br />
<br />
CUT TO:<br />
<br />
EXT. THE FAR SIDE OF THE CREEK - CONTINUOUS<br />
<br />
Terry and Cindy are kissing tenderly. Cindy still faces away. Terry's hands caress her back, and slowly move down the sides of her thighs.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
(breathlessly)<br />
<br />
Oh Terry.<br />
<br />
Still in his arms, Cindy fumbles with the snap of her cutoff jeans for a moment, and they fall away. Stepping out of the cutoffs, she is clad only in panties now.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(whispers)<br />
<br />
Oh my.<br />
<br />
They hug quietly for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
(moaning)<br />
<br />
Take me.<br />
<br />
They sink to their knees. Cindy undoes Terry's belt buckle and fly buttons. His jeans slide down around his thighs.<br />
<br />
Terry spreads out her shirt on the ground and begins to lay her down on it.<br />
<br />
Just then they HEAR the crack of a breaking branch.<br />
<br />
POLICEMAN TOM (O.S.)<br />
<br />
DAMN!<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
(hissing)<br />
<br />
Ditch the shit!<br />
<br />
Terry springs to his feet and pulls up his pants. With one hand, he holds up his pants, and with the other, he snatches his shirt from the boulder and hands it to Cindy.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Put this on.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE (o.S.)<br />
<br />
Police! Freeze!<br />
<br />
Flashlight beams play around them, and then focus on them. He faces the light, shielding Cindy from their source as she gets up and puts on his shirt.<br />
<br />
The officers appear. Policewoman Anne is in the lead, shining her flashlight in Terry's face.<br />
<br />
Policeman Tom unsnaps his holster. Policewoman Anne reaches across and stays his hand.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
OK guys, lemme see some hands.<br />
<br />
Terry, standing, and Cindy--in Terry's shirt, which comes down to her knees--raise their hands. Terry's jeans slip down again, and the unbuttoned shirt spreads open.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
We're unarmed!<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
I can see that. <br />
<br />
Policeman Tom, aiming his beam at Cindy, is transfixed. Policewoman Anne reaches across and pushes Policeman Tom's beam away from Cindy.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
(to Cindy and Terry)<br />
<br />
Please put your clothes back on, folks.<br />
<br />
(to Policeman Tom)<br />
<br />
Tom, you better go back to the car and meet backup. Tell'em we're under control. I'll finish up down here.<br />
<br />
POLICEMAN TOM<br />
<br />
Alright, Anne, see ya back at the car.<br />
<br />
Tom glances at Policewoman Anne, then back at Cindy, and ambles back out of site.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
(To Terry)<br />
<br />
Sir, am I correct in identifying the smell of marijuana from this area?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Marijuana? I don't smell...<br />
<br />
Just then Cindy leans forward to pick up her cutoffs. The tin falls out the shirt pocket, lands on the rocks with a clatter, and opens. <br />
<br />
Policewoman Anne shines her light on the area, and sees the remaining joints laying on the ground.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
Ma'am, would you mind handing me those reefers?<br />
<br />
Cindy kneels and gathers up the joints, and hands them to Policewoman Anne.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
Thank you, please get yourself dressed. Then I need to see some ID.<br />
<br />
Terry pulls out his wallet and hands her his drivers permit.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
I'm really sorry about this. It's all my fault; the girl had nothing to do with this. It was all my idea. Please let her go.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
But Terry...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(Cutting her off)<br />
<br />
I talked her into it...<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
All right, all right. Ma'am, some ID please.<br />
<br />
CINDY<br />
<br />
It's back in the truck.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
OK ma'am, why don't you go back to your vehicle and wait.<br />
<br />
Cindy glances back at Terry, and then turns and walks off screen.<br />
<br />
Policewoman Anne turns aside and calls Policeman Tom on the walky talky.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
Tom, run a check on Terrence Wolfe with an E, soundex [reads number]. Check the truck, too. Got all that?<br />
<br />
POLICEMAN TOM (O.S.)<br />
<br />
(scratchy indecipherable sounds from walky talky)<br />
<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
Roger all that.<br />
<br />
Hands on hips, she turns back to Terry. Terry is still without a shirt on. Moonlight highlights his chest and arms.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
Who does that truck belong to, Mr. Wolfe?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Vintage Design Build. I'm a carpenter...I mean a carpenter's helper there.<br />
<br />
policewoman anne<br />
<br />
I know that name. Is that your project on Patton Road?, with the dumpster hanging out into the travel lane?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes, ma'am. The owner wouldn't let us get it any closer to the curb. He was worried they'd break a branch off his tree.<br />
<br />
Policewoman Anne's walky talky crackles.<br />
<br />
POLICEMAN TOM (O.S.)<br />
<br />
(on walky talky)<br />
<br />
No priors on Terrence Wolfe, Anne.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
(into walky talky)<br />
<br />
Thanks, Tom. When the girl gets back, check her out, too.<br />
<br />
(to Terry)<br />
<br />
Mr. Wolfe, you seem like a nice young man. I really don't want to spend 2 hours writing you up, know what I mean? Is this all the shit you were holding?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes, ma'am.<br />
<br />
Policewoman Anne walks over to the edge of the bank and tosses the joints into the creek. They swirl for a moment in the current and then flow downstream.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
Since I didn't find any weed on you, I can't write you up. I do have to issue you a parking ticket.<br />
<br />
Again Policewoman Anne's walky talky crackles.<br />
<br />
POLICEMAN TOM (O.S.)<br />
<br />
(on walky talky)<br />
<br />
No priors on Cynthia Jamison, Anne.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
(into walky talky)<br />
<br />
Roger that, Tom.<br />
<br />
(to Terry)<br />
<br />
You OK driving?<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes ma'am.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
Good. You go back to your vehicle and take that young lady somewhere a little more discreet, OK? Then promise me you'll stay out of trouble, OK? I really don't want to see you again in circumstances like this. You got all that?<br />
<br />
Policewoman Anne hands Terry back his ID.<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am.<br />
<br />
Terry begins to walk away. Policewoman Anne interrupts.<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
Mr. Wolfe...<br />
<br />
TERRY<br />
<br />
(Turning back)<br />
<br />
Yes, ma'am?<br />
<br />
POLICEWOMAN ANNE<br />
<br />
What in the fuck were you thinking?...oh, never mind. Drive safely, sir.<br />
<br />
CUT TO: (To be continued...some days later--expecting to be regarded as a hero—Terry is crushed to see Cindy with another guy. When confronted, she tells Terry he is too wild—a bad influence on her.)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-80492669049724652672010-07-06T10:34:00.000-04:002010-07-06T10:34:35.020-04:00surprise, a gut punch, and revelationwas it Tolstoy, who said that in the course of writing, a good character will surprise the author?<br />
<br />
I am continually being surprised by the development not only of the characters, but also of the action itself, as I write this script.<br />
<br />
This morning, two additional considerations came into view--one of which hit me like a gut punch; the other a revelation.<br />
<br />
The first was in the letters page of the New York Times--readers commenting on a recent article on the decline of sexuality in middle class American society. One letter noted that in our anything goes culture...<br />
<br />
<blockquote><i>We really are drenched in prurience, not sex. The difference is vital. The mass media have trivialized eroticism, and replaced it with titillation, and a kind of coarse, juvenile sensitivity, as the mass media do with everything.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Tom Tillinghast</i><br />
<i>San Francisco, June 27, 2010 </i></blockquote>SEE: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/06/opinion/l06sex.html?_r=1&ref=opinion <br />
<br />
this is a fascinating discussion, as interesting as--if not more than--the original article.<br />
<br />
SEE: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/06/27/opinion/27Paglia.html?scp=1&sq=camille%20paglia&st=cse<br />
<br />
So far, my script totters at the edge of pure titillation; it is indeed somewhat coarse, and arguably juvenile.<br />
<br />
Thus indicted, can I find a way to redeem the narrative, to explore the nature of eroticism, and create something that is not mere prurience?<br />
<br />
The second consideration was Janet's observation, which blew the top of my head off. Janet--who has provided many invaluable suggestions to help breath life into my characters--noted that the sequence in the park recapitulates Eve's tempting of Adam, and their casting out of the Garden of Eden. Policewoman Anne, of course, plays a very god-like role, ultimately banishing Terry and Cindy from the park.<br />
<br />
Does this revelation help to resolve the first question? The challenge is before me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-16842510806688122682010-07-02T15:22:00.000-04:002010-07-02T15:22:41.386-04:00spoilerin the last scene of the screenplay (because this is a movie!) Terry dashes out the door of the video shop, and it's a new meter maid--not the matronly woman who has been haunting him--but a comely lass...we watch them through the shop window as the credits roll; Terry gesticulating, the girl writing him up and handing him the ticket, more gesticulating and consternation, and then, we see them swapping cell phone numbers and making moon faces...the camera pulls back...we see that Donna has been taking it all in...as Terry and the girl pass out of sight, Donna, bemused, shakes her head and returns the counter...FADE OUTUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-58846846672012997842010-05-17T20:59:00.000-04:002010-05-17T20:59:05.951-04:00Passive House CertificationAt long last, I received notification of my certification as a Passive House Consultant. The Passive House system is a methodology for creating comfortable, healthy, near-net-zero energy homes and buildings. <br />
<br />
My company, Abrams Design Build, will now adding Passive House design and consulting to our other services.<br />
<br />
See more about the Passive House system at the PHIUS website:<br />
<br />
http://www.passivehouse.us/passiveHouse/PassiveHouseInfo.html<br />
<br />
visit our website at:<br />
<br />
www.abramsdesignbuild.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-51294075089134163532010-05-14T15:28:00.005-04:002010-08-29T11:59:56.821-04:00disturbance-comments on the final draftI've gone this through this manuscript a few more times, tightening the action and dialog, refining the characters, and trying to achieve a more consistent voice throughout. The narrative has been brought even closer to home. Also, a factual error has been corrected: Little Bill kicks the bejeezus out of Munny in Skinny's saloon, not in the street. Lastly, I gave the narrative a little a twist at the end, which I hope tempers Terry's gratuitous remark about "dykes" in the beginning of the story.<br />
<br />
Mostly this is a piece of fluff, and unquestionably a shaggy (or snarling) dog story--so don't look for an important message here--just enjoy the ride! <br />
<br />
Many thanks to Janet Kinzer for her excellent suggestions, which help give the story humor, nuance, and some edge. <br />
<br />
-AA<br />
<br />
<br />
PS--this story has real roots--the conceit derives from a wire service report I saw in the NYT last autumn--here's a link to the story:<br />
<br />
http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9B00EFD9123FF930A35753C1A96F9C8B63&scp=1&sq=terri+antisdale&st=nyt<br />
<br />
<br />
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</style> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">LIMITS OF DISTURBANCE</div><div class="MsoNormal">By Alan Abrams</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">THE FLASH OF THE CAMERA brought him back into the moment. His mind had drifted, back to the last time he got busted, with that girl in the woods behind the arboretum. Got off easy that time, misdemeanors. A hundred each, for “being naked in his person.” Fifty for the pot. Or was it the other way around?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ditch it!” she’d hissed at him, when the searchlight interrupted them. But by the time he wriggled back into his jeans, and fidgeted the bag out of his pocket, the two cops had crashed through the brush, playing their five cell lamps on them all the way. All he could do was hand over the bag, grinning lamely. Wonder how long they were watching...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Give me your right hand,” ordered the little blonde. Her hands were warm and moist, as she applied his fingers to the inkpad. His were cold. “Now the left.” He could smell her perfume. In her earlobe was a gold stud in the shape of a heart. Maybe she’s not a dyke. Maybe it’s the Kevlar vest, the blocky blue trousers, the dorky shoes—take all that away and maybe she's kind of cute.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He gave her a wellpracticed smile, one that he knew forced out a dimple. She screwed up her face, trying not to smile back, but two quick snorts erupted from her nostrils. Smiling, she shook her head and said, “Please take a seat on the bench, Mr. Wolfe.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He sat down. He could hear the buzz from the fluorescent lights over his head. Damn. This time it’s serious. Car theft. With that stupid prior, looking at some time, for sure. What time is it? 7:45. Damn, it all happened so fast. How did things get so out of whack?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He met her at the coop, where she worked a register. Occasionally, he’d stop in to pick up something for lunch—a tray of <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state> rolls, or a turkey sandwich, since they started carrying meat. He’d fiddle around at the power bar display until her line was the shortest, and chat with her while she rung him up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Her name was Shelly. She was putting in her time there to get the discount on groceries. Her massage practice brought in some cash; once in a while, she earned a little more giving yoga lessons. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t that he was hitting on her—clearly, she was older. But there was an openness, a childish innocence about her, that attracted him and put him at ease. Still, he did not give her much thought until one morning last week when his back went out. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A day prior, the old man had sent him to pick up a load of sheetrock, and deliver it to one of their projects in Kensington. Wolfe flipped down the tailgate, and told the fork lift operator down at Galliher’s to keep loading the truck until the rubber cushions under the truckbed sat just touched the rear axel—hopefully, he could haul the entire load in one trip.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The truck was only a half ton, and it wallowed in the ruts and potholes of the unpaved yard. The rock hung over two feet out beyond the tailgate, and the edge of the bottom sheets dragged when he cleared the apron and moved out, headed north on Blair Road. He prayed no cops would see him like that, ass dragging and front end floating. He prayed harder that the tires would hold out, because there was no way the jack would lift the back end with that load, and the spare—if it had any air in it at all—was worn to the cords.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But suddenly, after he’d made it all the way up to <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Georgia Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>, he remembered the CD’s he’s been carrying for three days. Damn. More frigging late fees. So he swerved into the left lane, and barely making the light, hung a u-turn. The truck yawed sickeningly, but finally straightened out without anything slipping off, and he drove back the two miles to the video store on <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Laurel</st1:place></st1:city>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He pulled up to the curb under a sign that said No Parking. He was going to shove the tapes into the slot and run, but peering through the glare on the storefront, he got a glimpse of the girl behind the counter. He pulled open the door, jangling a thong of sleigh bells. “Yo, Don,” he said to the girl. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s Donna to you, buster,” she replied, wrinkling her nose at him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Donna was more than a head shorter than Wolfe, with raven black hair except for a crimson streak that fell across her forehead. Indian, or Filipina, or something. How do you tell? Those mixed girls are always a knockout. She was wearing skin tight elastic pants trimmed to look like jeans, and an embroidered peasant blouse that stopped just short of her waist. A tantalizing ring of flesh bulged over the top of the jeans. Man would I like to... </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She noticed him gawking. “Hey, creep, don’t drool on my counter.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He shoved his right fist under his T-shirt and bumpbumped it over his heart. “Kathump, kathump, kathump,” he said, rolling his eyes. "Hey, remember that Eastwood flick you recommended? Where he plays the old bounty hunter?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, it's in. Been holding it for you forever, for crissake.” As she leaned to reach under the counter, the top of her blouse fell away from her chest. He tried not to look, but his eyes tumbled down her décolletage. Oh my. All real. She retrieved the disc and passed it across to him. Did she notice?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Thanks,” he said. “You want to come over and watch it with me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No thanks. Seen it, twice. Anyway, aren’t you back together with Cortney?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Man, I tried. All we did was drink and fight. I had to get out of there—I’m crazy enough on my own, without that...” He started to say bitch, but then paused. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You know, Don, it’s not like I hate her or anything. We just set each other off. I wanted it to work out, but maybe I’m not cut out for being married.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I never understood why you got hitched in the first place. You were the brainy one, bound for college and all.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, guess I wasn’t as smart as I seemed. Everyone wanted her to get an abortion—even Cortney—but I talked her out of it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Jeez, I never knew. Hey, how old is <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Willow</st1:place></st1:city> now, six, seven?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, she just turned five, but she’s smart as hell. A smart aleck, too. I guess in the long run, I’m glad it turned out the way it did. She’s totally cool. Started kindergarten this week.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, is that your truck? The meter maid just parked across the street.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Shit! Gotta go. But hey, why don’t come over tonight; we’ll get a pizza.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’d really like to, but I’m sorta seeing someone.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh. Oh well, lucky guy, I guess.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You better go, looks like she’s gonna write you up.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A short, heavy set, grey haired woman in a uniform was waddling across the street toward his truck. He grabbed the CD and dashed out the door. The grey haired woman was already jotting down his tag number.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sorry—I didn’t mean to go in. I was just going to put some CD’s in the slot. I’ll move it right now. Please don’t give me a ticket.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He smiled down at her. She was not impressed, and looked up at him with a haggard face. “Once I write down a number, son, I have to issue a ticket.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ok, but please don’t cite me for a no parking zone. That’s fifty bucks, right? Please! Just make a meter offense. Please!” He folded his hands like he was praying and rolled his eyes upward. “Oh please!” he repeated, holding his pose.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“All right, son, just this once. If I see that truck parked illegally again, I’m going call for a boot. She smiled back at him and shook her head. On the form, she checked off Expired Meter. Then she signed it and ripped it off the clipboard, and handed it over. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Now move it quick, before someone sees us,” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Thankyouthankyou.” He wanted to lean over and kiss her on her head, but had enough sense to quit while he was ahead. Instead, he jumped into the truck and rolled down the window. He shouted to her as she walked back across the street, “Thankyouthankyou, I won’t forget it.” Then he started the engine, shoved it in gear, and pulled away, slipping the clutch like crazy so as not to leave a pile of sheetrock on the pavement.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By the time he arrived at the site, the chiroqueros were piling into their beat up Corolla. He got out of his truck and trotted up to their car. He looked in and saw the guy in the back pulling six Dos Equis out of a cooler. The driver rolled down the window, but did not kill the engine. “Pasa,” he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yo, Carlos, give me a hand unloading this rock.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No way, dude. I waited for two hours for you. I gotta pay these guys for nothing, sitting around waiting for your sorry ass. Unload it yourself.” Carlos rolled up the window and pulled away, blown muffler spluttering. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He walked back to his truck and kicked the bulging rear tire. He could drive back home, and return in the morning when there would be someone to help unload. But the old man would be expecting him at the office in the morning. How could he explain being so late? Then a big raindrop plopped on the hood, then another.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shhhhit. He got back into the truck once again, and backed it up the driveway, and across the lawn, right up to the stoop. Fuck them goddam azaleas.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then he got out of the truck, and started unloading the rock, at first tearing the tabs that bound the books, and carrying in the sheets one by one. The rain gradually intensified. Halfway through the load, it was pouring. His shirt was drenched. So he began carrying in unbroken books, two sheets at a time. Instead of distributing the sheets throughout the house, he stacked them just inside the front door. As the pile grew, the floor sagged.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At last he was done. His shoulders ached, and there was a dull pain in his back, just below his belt. He fired up the truck and started to pull out. The tires spun in the wet grass, but he feathered off the throttle until the truck slowly caught enough traction to ease back to the driveway. As he turned into the driveway, the tire on the pavement caught some traction, but the wheel still on the lawn spun wildly, slinging mud across the front of the house. Bloody fucking hell. I’m outta here. On his way home, he picked up two six packs of Bud, a big bag of Doritos, and a tub of bean dip. He fell asleep somewhere into the second six, while Hackman worked over Eastwood with his pointed toe boots, as Eastwood lay helpless in the dirt.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Next morning he woke with a full bladder. As he swung his legs over the bed to get up, there was a sudden stab of pain in his lower back, like a jolt from a cattle prod. Any movement produced sheer agony. He could not stand. But he had to pee, urgently now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He managed to roll himself onto the floor, prone, and slither along, grasping at furniture and door jambs, and creeping on his elbows, until he made it to the bathroom. He paused next to the tub and laid his cheek on the cold tile. His bladder now nearly bursting, he raised his knee over the rim of the tub, and heaved himself over. The pain was so intense he saw flashes of light before his eyes, but at least he was able to release himself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then he just lay there in the tub, concentrating on his breathing. After a few moments, he groped for the shower valve, and turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it. Slowly he worked himself up on his knees, and let the water work on the spasm. Finally he was able to stand.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He found the bottle of Tylenol 3 left over the bike accident, when he broke his collar bone. Two tabs left. Down the hatch. He went back to his room and found the three left over Buds, and popped one open. It was warm, but not too bad under the circumstances. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then he called the boss and begged off for the day. All the old man cared about was whether he was going to make a worker’s comp claim. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Tylenol started taking hold, and his back began to relax a little. He opened another Bud and restarted the CD. Then he fast forwarded back to where he left off. But once again sleep overtook him before he reached the end.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was nearly 3 when he awoke. The pain had returned. That’s when he remembered Shelly. Her card was in his wallet. It had two blue handprints on it, like a child would leave on a finger painting. The card read:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A Nurturing Blend of Swedish Massage, Caring Touch,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Deep Tissue Massage, and Intuitive Energy Work</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He dialed the number, and she answered the phone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hello.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Shelly?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“This is she.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Shelly, hi. This is Terry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Terry?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Terry Wolfe, you know, the guy, uh, the guy with the <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">California</st1:place></st1:state> rolls.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh yeah. Hi Terry, what’s up?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Uh…” He paused. His head was spinning. He flashed on Eastwood cringing in the dirt.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She could hear his heavy breathing. “Are you ok?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s my back,” he croaked. “I can barely move. Can you help me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’ve got someone coming in at three thirty. Can you make it over here at five?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah. If I don’t blow my brains out first.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He sighed a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. Thanks for letting me come in. I’ll be there at five.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The drive to the address she gave him was hell. Pushing in the heavy clutch pedal caused him jolts of pain so sharp that it seemed like arcs of light were flashing before his eyes. He faked it through stop signs, coasting in third, and when he had to come to a complete stop, he’d just mash on the brakes and let the engine stall. Then he’d shift into granny gear without clutching, and hit the ignition switch, letting the starter motor get him rolling again. Then just bang it into third. Pure brutality. On top of his back spasm, he sensed the agony he was causing to the gear train. It was close to six when turned down her street.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The address led him to a trim little bungalow. Attached to a porch column was a brightly colored flag with some cartoon character on it. He limped up the walk, which ran along a chain link fence on the side of the property. His T shirt snagged the branch of a rose bush that grew from the other side. As he tugged to free it, a german shepherd came flying across the neighbor’s yard, barking furiously, and reared up with its front legs against the top of the fence. It barked at him savagely, making sucking sounds when it inhaled. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He lurched back at first, but then approached the dog and said soothingly, “Cool, baby, be cooool.” The dog paused, and he offered it his hand to sniff. The dog calmly studied the hand for a moment, and then suddenly snapped at it. He drew it back quickly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Alright, alright now, you be cool, and I’ll be cool. Just be cooool.” He slowly, very slowly, offered his hand once more, and this time the dog sniffed it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“There, there, now, baby, it’s cool, reeeeal cool.” He extended his hand and stroked the dog’s head, and then worked the soft flesh behind its ear. The dog licked at his hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Alright, baby, gotta go now. You be good now.” He turned and walked up to the porch steps. He ascended a step with his right foot, and swung the left up to meet the right on the same step, and so hobbled to the top.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To one side of the porch was a small pink bicycle with training wheels and streamers attached to the end of the hand grips. On the other side was a three wheeled baby buggy, the kind joggers use.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He gently rapped on the screen door, and a man wearing a loosened tie and a plastic ID badge on a lanyard answered. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, may I help you?” he asked. A young woman carrying an infant on her hip peered around an interior doorway. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m here for a massage, but maybe I have the wrong place.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, you want Shelly. She lives in the basement. Go around to your left—she’s all the way round back. Watch out for that dog next door; she’s vicious.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He thanked him and hobbled back down. As he walked down the sloping side yard, muddy from the last night’s rain, the dog walked parallel to him, across the fence, making a high pitched whining sound.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Around the back there was a garden patch, maybe six by six. He could smell a rosemary plant at the corner of it, and saw some other herbs he couldn’t identify. A few neatly staked plants bore tiny bright green tomatoes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Under a deck that served the main floor were some concrete steps that led to the basement door. A cat was sleeping on the brick wall flanking the steps, where some slanting sun had penetrated. He did his best not to wake it as he one stepped it down to the door.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She was waiting by the door, and held it for him as he entered. At the same time, the cat jumped down and darted past him, into the basement. They were standing in a narrow hallway, barely enough room for the two of them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I had given up on you. I’ve got to be at practice at seven. We’re doing a drum-vigil at city hall tomorrow. It’s just too late to do anything…oh, but look at you! Turn around.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He turned, and she ran two fingers of each hand down the sides of his spine, and then back up again. She stopped just above his waist and circled a point with her fingers. He grimaced and tensed up. She lifted his shirt and put her palm over the spot. “Right here, isn’t it. I can feel the heat.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Her hand was soothing. “That’s it,” he said softly. “It’s like a dagger that someone keeps twisting.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You know I should charge you for a no-show. Never mind, come on in. I usually do ninety minutes, but all I can give you now is an hour. OK?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Anything, I’ll take anything. Thank you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She led him through a small kitchen that smelled of curry, and then through an interior room with a boiler and water heater on one side, and a toilet, sink, and stall shower on the other. He had to duck under radiator pipes to make it through, into a small room with a massage table. There was one window with a sill about five feet above the floor, with a silk scarf for a curtain. Under the window was a small stand with a lamp and a small statue of a man with an elephant head sitting in a yoga pose. A boom box and some containers of oil sat on a shelf at the bottom of the stand. On the opposite wall was a print of a Hindu looking man and woman, flying on the back of a half-man, half-bird creature. The man had blue skin. A thin, colorfully patterned carpet covered the middle of the concrete floor. Otherwise the room was bare.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He turned around and once again they were face to face. He couldn’t decide if she was attractive or not. She was tall and slender, and carried her head high. Her face was thin, and her cheek bones and chin were prominent, almost manly. Her hair, just beginning to grey, was pulled straight back and fastened with a leather clip. She had wide-set, soft grey eyes, but they were distorted by the thick lenses of her metal framed glasses. A crack ran through the corner of on lens. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She was wearing a black sleeveless tank top and billowy, almost translucent pants cut like pajama bottoms. Her feet were bare. The muscles of her arms and shoulders were well defined. He could smell a trace of garlic in her breath. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Thanks again,” he said. “I’m really sorry…” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She cut him off. “Never mind, Terry. I’m going to step outside so you can undress. If you want, you can leave your underpants on. There’s a hanger on that pipe for your clothes. When you’re undressed, you can lie face up on the table, and pull the blanked over yourself.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then she handed him a glass of water. “I want you to drink this before we begin. It’s to carry away the toxins. I’ll be back in a minute.” She left the room and closed the door. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He downed the water, not realizing how thirsty he was until the first gulp. Then he took off his clothes, stopping at his shorts. How many girls have seen me buck naked? None of them complained, either. But he didn't want to embarrass her, so he left them on.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She returned carrying a CD, walked across the room to the little stand, and then put the disc into the boombox. It played the alien sounds of a sitar and some sort of handstruck drums. “I hope you like ragas,” she said. “It helps me to listen to your body.” She went back to the little stand, and applied some oil to her hands. As she stood in front of the lamp, he could see the silhouette of her thighs through her gauzy pants. His eyes ached to see more.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then she started the massage, beginning with his upper body. Looking up at her as she worked on his temples and scalp, he noticed the hair in her arm pits. Thick, black and curly, like a man’s. Then he saw that her eyes were closed. Was there something about him that turned her off, too? That silly tattoo? He got it that night he took Cortney to get the morning glory vine up her back, around the back of her neck. How ugly it got, when the colors faded and the blue ink smudged beneath her skin.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Your eyes are closed,” he remarked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She laughed softly. “I think I see better with my hands sometimes.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah, I’m OK with all that. I’d like to take a really good look at you, too. He tried to unwind. The bending notes of the sitar sounded weird; he could not pick up a rhythm or a melody. The ceiling above was unfinished—bare joists, some electrical cables, some pipes. Above the joists was a diagonal pattern of rough sawn boards. It’s eerie to think all those guys are dead--the carpenter who nailed all those boards down, the plumber and electrician, dead. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Try and concentrate on your breathing,” she said, working his legs and feet. “I want you to relax. Imagine the toxins flushing out of your muscles.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When she started working on his arms, she noticed the bump in his collar bone, and gently traced with her fingers where the halves of the bone had overlapped and knit back together. “That must have hurt,” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I guess. I was high at the time. Riding my bike and hit a patch of wet leaves. Going way too fast, as usual.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I like bicycling,” she replied.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I had to bicycle because my license was suspended. I haven’t ridden much since they reinstated it, though. Maybe I should take it up again and break the other collar bone. The shoulder on the broken side doesn’t stick out near as far as my good shoulder. It makes me look deformed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She gripped his upper arm, and pulled her oiled hands down to his wrist. She smiled and said, “You have a beautiful body.” Then she closed her eyes and worked silently.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The music began to take on a shimmering quality, and as she worked, he discovered an underlying rhythm that guided his breathing. He watched her work, her own muscles tautening and relaxing with each stroke. He noticed droplets of perspiration in the hair under her arms.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I like your body, too,” he told her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“OK, I need you to turn over. Let’s get to work on this knot.” He turned and she worked his shoulders, his spine, his buttocks. He gazed across at the woman on the poster, with her gold headdress, and bare midriff. She had those almond eyes, that sly smile, like Donna. The notes of the sitar became the woman’s lips, her darting tongue; the drum beats the tireless driving force of the blue skinned man. His breathing animated the wings of the bird-man creature. All the while her hands worked, in long continuous strokes, or pausing at intervals up his spine, silently whirling, drilling, pulsing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the massage, his back still hurt, but the pain felt somehow in proportion to the rest of his body. After he dressed, she handed him another glass of water, and invited him to sit down at a little table by the back door. She sat down in the other chair, and for a while they chatted about odd stuff. He told her a little about his job, but when she asked more personal questions, he changed the subject. The she launched into a monologue about his diet, how he was functioning in a state of semidehydration, how growth hormones in mass produced meat could be causing stresses that leave him vulnerable to injury. He liked her voice, and the way she emphasized her points by pulling her shoulders back and thrusting out her chest. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">While she was speaking, the cat leapt into his lap—so softly, he almost didn’t notice—more like it just materialized there. He stroked it gently and half listened to her. His core muscles needed to be strengthened. He should stretch before exerting himself. The cat kneaded his thigh and then snuggled its head against his belly. He expressed agreement with her from time to time, mostly just a silent nodding. Sometimes he’d catch her eye and smile, but otherwise he watched her hands gesture as she spoke, once in a while gazing around the room at the glass canisters of rice, beans, and grain. A pair of drum sticks with padded balls hung on one wall. The last slanting rays of sun came through the window, falling on the side of her face. It illuminated the down on her cheek, and highlighted the line of her nose, lips, and chin.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then she fell silent, and caught his eye. After a moment, she asked, “Would you mind...would you like...may I...kiss you? If you don’t...” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Me?” he sputtered. “Yes, please, I think I would like...I mean, yes, please.” Then he too fell silent, waiting, and then she leaned forward, still looking into his eyes. Oh my. He leaned toward her, across the little table, just until their lips met. Just barely brushing together—still, it warmed his mouth like the first sip of a strong red wine. Momentarily she broke away and softly sighed, ohhhh, then with her eyes closed this time, kissed him again. Easy boy. Don't push it. This time her lips parted slightly, and she tilted her head to gain better purchase with his lips. Her tongue began to probe, and he welcomed it with his own. A familiar sensation stirred him. Oh my, here and now. Oh my. He reached under the table and put his hand gently on her thigh, just above the knee. Ohhh, she sighed again, parting her legs. Oh my, oh my. He began to slide his hand slowly up the inside of her thigh, but as he shifted his weight in his chair the cat sprang from his lap and landed on the floor. Thu-thud. She pulled back abruptly and said, “You have to go now.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He stammered, “But I thought...”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, really, I mean it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Damn. DAMN. He rose up and said, “I’m sorry. I thought...I didn’t mean to...I mean...how much do I owe…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Please…GO!” She stood up and faced him, her arms at her side, fists clenched. Her cheeks were red. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He backed away, knocking his chair over. The seatback hit the floor with a crash.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m sorry, pleases let me pay you for…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Just…GO!” The last syllable broke into falsetto. She covered her face and said something he didn’t understand, her words distorted with sobs. Holy shit, I’m outta here. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He turned and bolted out the screen door. It slammed shut behind him. As he passed by the little garden, he saw the man from upstairs leaning over the back porch. The man’s wife was behind him. He turned and said to the man, “Nothing happened. Nothing!” Sobbing came through her kitchen window. As he rounded the corner and started walking up the side yard, the german shepherd flung itself against the fence, barking and snarling at him all the way to the front yard. The dog continued to bark even as he got back into the truck and pulled away. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the sound of the sleigh bells smacking the door, she looked up and saw him come in. “Boy, do you look rugged. That life in the fast lane is catching up with you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">His gait was still stiff, and his shoulders were hunched. “Hey Don. It’s not what you think, it’s my back. Had to hump a load of sheetrock by myself.” Not to mention, feeling like I was worked over with a crowbar, after that scene at Shelly’s.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What, that tightwad you work for too cheap to hire enough help?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Naw, it’s my own fault. Long story. I’d tell you about it over a beer sometime.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Maybe sometime.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Maybe tonight.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sorry, no can do. I told you I’m kinda going with someone.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Damn she looks good today. Those soft brown shoulders. "Give me hope," he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">"I hope you put a quarter in the meter."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Shit, thanks for reminding me. Anyway, here’s that Eastwood disc back. Never did finish it, though.” He set the jacket on the counter. “So who is this lucky dude.?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nobody you’d know. Someone from that class I’m taking.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Moving on up in the world…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She cut him off. “Dammit, Terry, cut the crap. You should be taking classes yourself. Do you honestly want to be unloading trucks the rest of your life?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I dunno.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A spasm grabbed his back. He winced, and turned away from the counter and walked back into the stacks. He flashed on the image of the blue skinned man and the woman with almond shaped eyes. What would it be like, to do it with that sitar music? Just then, her cell phone rang. He eased closer to the counter, concealed behind the shelves, and overheard her say, “Yeah, I get off at nine. Great, I’ll meet you in front of the shop.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That's a relief. At least she didn't make it up just to blow me off. He pulled another jacket off the shelf and walked back to the counter. “You know, it’s not all that bad. The old man let me build a set of bookshelves for that big house over on Holly. Laid it all out myself; came out real nice. He even said so.” He slid the jacket over to her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Dead Man Walking. Good choice for you, dude. Hey, isn’t that your girlfriend out there?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was the meter maid. The bells slapped the door again as he vanished.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When he got back to the office, the old man handed him a small envelope. It was addressed to him, care of the office. The handwriting was tiny, fashioned in rounded, upright strokes. Shelly’s name and address was on the flap.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was stunned. “Looks like you have an admirer,” said the old man. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, right,” he replied. Must be a bill for the massage. He took the envelope back into the shop, and tore it open. Inside was a card dated a few days earlier, it read:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">Dear Terry,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">I wasn’t sure of your address, so I sent this to your office. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">I’m so sorry about how I behaved this evening. I hope your back is better. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;">Maybe this is crazy, but I thought we could have dinner together some time. I know a great Indian restaurant, <st1:place w:st="on">Annapurna</st1:place>'s, not too weird, they even serve some chicken dishes. Please give me a call any time. And remember to stretch out every morning, and drink plenty of water.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">Namaste, Shelly</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What’s with this namaste business. Have to look it up sometime. Anyway, is she loopy or what. Screaming at me one minute like I was raping her, and now this. Like I need another nut case on my hands, anyway. He shoved the card in his shirt pocket and went back to work. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was at his mom’s house, watching an Orioles game on TV in the living room. She had made him dinner, and had just come up from the basement with a basket of his laundry, clean and folded. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Terry, you said you’d take care of that toilet down there. I got tired of jiggling the handle, so I finally just shut the valve. But sometimes I need it…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma, I’m sorry, I keep forgetting to pickup the part.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sweetheart, I’ll pay you…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma, it’s not like that, I just keep forgetting, that’s all. I promise I’ll take care of it soon. Just quit nag…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Terry, darling, please stop. I’ll just call a plumber.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma-aa, for crissakes, I said I’ll take care of it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She walked over to where he was sitting and picked up his beer can and gave it a wiggle. It was empty.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Want another one, darling?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah, Ma.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“By the way, I found this note in your shirt.” She reached into her apron pocket and pulled it out. “From a ‘Shelly.’ Who’s this? I thought you and Cortney were getting back together.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Aw Ma…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, Terry, Terry, Terry. You were crazy about that girl. But you were so young. Maybe your father was right about her—but even he liked her, too.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, when he’d had a few.” The inning was over and a commercial had started up. He picked up the remote and flipped through some stations.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh Terry, sometimes I’m glad he’s not around anymore, to see you like this. Anyway, who’s this Shelly? Is she nice?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I dunno, she’s just some girl I met.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well I hope it works out. Anyway, please bring <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Willow</st1:place></st1:city> by sometime, I never get to see her. You have her on weekends, right?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Every other, Ma, every other. Yeah, I’ll bring her over.” He flipped back to the game. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“And remember that part for the toilet.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“All right, Ma, all right,” he said. She turned and walked toward the kitchen to get him his beer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Shelly—hi, it’s Terry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, hi Terry. How are you? Are we still on for tonight?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh yeah—but I can’t pick you up this evening. I left some construction adhesive on the seat of my truck—you know, in those big tubes—and I parked in the sun this afternoon. The cab got so hot that some of the tubes burst, and there’s this smelly crud all over the seat.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oooohh, sorry about your truck. I’m working at the coop this afternoon--why don’t I pick you up after I get off, and I can drive us to the restaurant.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, thanks, that’s a great idea. I’m really looking forward to this.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Me, too. I get off at four. So I'll pick you up at four thirty--we can get the early bird special--it's half price.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“OK then, see you at four thirty. I promise I won’t be late this time. But just in case, give me your cell number.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Terry, I don’t have one. Please be on time, OK.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No problem; I’ll be ready. I’ll be waiting out in front of my building.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He took off an hour early so he’d have plenty of time before she picked him up, but after showering and shaving (close, you know, in case things went all right), and trying on each of his three good shirts, it was getting late. Checking the time, he grabbed a sport jacket, and looked in the mirror again, double checking for dandruff and crap between his teeth. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He noticed how the jacket was fitting better, since he began working construction. It used to hang off his shoulders, scarecrow like. It was an ancient, battered tweed—his father’s. A coarse weave, in greens and tans, with flecks of blue and red. The suede elbow patches, worn shiny, were starting to come unstitched. Way too warm for the weather, but even so, he felt like wearing it. He recalled the lanolin smell, from when he was a boy, and the old man in one of his rare gentle moods, put his arm around him. How scratchy it was at his neck, even while it comforted him. And when he was older, doing his homework at the kitchen table, and the old man would come home in that manic gay mood, that three beer bonhomie, that morphed seamlessly into criticism after Ma poured him a few more, and then into invective, fierce and fluent, and then, worst of all, into that blubbering self pity. Silent through the whole episode, he’d finally get up and flip the old man’s big arm over his skinny shoulder, that same scratchy sleeve. Come on Dad, time for bed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shit! It’s getting late. He grabbed his phone and his keys and his wallet and shoved it all in the jacket pocket, and made for the door. I’ll sort it all out later, don’t want to keep the lady waiting. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Emerging into the afternoon sun, he paused a moment for his eyes to get used to the light. From the stoop, he made out the shape of a car slowing down, stopping for a moment at the empty space at the curb, and then pulling up beside the next parked car. It was a station wagon, faded maroon. A Volvo, maybe. No, it can’t be, listen to it clattering—it’s a diesel—an old bomb of a Mercedes. He watched as the driver struggled to park—first, backing in too sharp, hitting the curb with the jolt, then pulling all the way out, and back in again, this time winding up two feet away from the curb. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He walked toward the car to see if it was her. But the side window was obscured by glare. As he approached, the clattering quit, and the window rolled down. He leaned over and peered in. There she was, in a bright print sun dress. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hi,” he said. “Nice to see you again.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She leaned over toward him and said, “Nice to see you, too. Hop on in.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She leaned even farther to unlatch the door. As he got in, he tried not to stare down the top of her dress. “Thanks again for picking me up,” he said as he slid in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No problem. I’m glad to do it. I hope your truck will be ok.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He laughed. “It’s not a big deal. The seat was shot anyway. I’ll just get a cover for it…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As he spoke, she swung around in her seat, drawing her right knee up toward him. It pulled up the hem of her dress, revealing the entirety of her thigh. Again he tried not to stare, but that glimpse of flesh sent a shaft of heat up through the core of his body. She’s got to be aware of what she’s doing. Sheesh…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Terry,” she interrupted.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m so sorry for losing my cool that night. I just got scared.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Of me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I don’t know. Maybe—maybe I was afraid of myself. But I’m not, now.” She drew closer to him; the dress riding even higher, hiding nothing now. Oh my. She’s gotta know. He felt like reaching over and pulling it back down. He forced himself to look up at her face. Then, with her eyes closed, she placed her hands on his temples, fingers spread wide, and let them flow down over the contours of his face, slowly, gently, in a continuous gesture that ended with two fingers stroking his lips. Waves of heat flowed up and down inside him. But before he could respond, she turned forward, jerked down her dress and said, “We better get going, or we’ll miss the early bird. Are you getting hungry?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh yeah, I sure am,” he replied enthusiastically. His thoughts were swirling. Hungry all right, for you. Oh my. Say something, anything.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Hey, great car,” he blurted.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, this is Steely.” She patted the dash affectionately.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Steely? Hi Steely, pleased to meetcha.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I love this car. It belonged to an old man I knew—a client. I do some geriatric work, you know. He’d call me once a week for a massage, and when I’d visit, he’d come out and help me wrestle my table out of the back seat of the car—I had one of those eensie little Civics, you know. He was such a nice man, tall and trim—you could even say handsome, in that old man sort of way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Then he got cancer. It spread so fast—soon he was just wasting away. Still he kept calling me. I’d do what I could do—which really wasn’t really much—it seemed like his elbows would tear right through his skin. At the end, he just wanted me to sit and hold his hand.” Her voice quivered—just on the last syllable--and a tear spilled out of her eye. “Sorry.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“After he died, I got a call from his daughter. He’d left me his car. She told me he thought it make it easier for me to carry my table around in it." She made a tiny snuffle, and he felt his own eyes moistening. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Frederick Steele. That was his name. That’s why I call him Steely.” She reached out to pat the dash again, but pulled back her hand, and wiped her cheek.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Steely,” he repeated, patting his side of the dash. Man it was hot. The breeze through the open windows had already dried his hair. He wriggled out of the jacket, and laid it neatly on the back seat. Then he just sat there in silence—after the story about the old guy, he just couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound dumb. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, they approached the restaurant. There were no parking spaces out front, so they turned onto Bonifant and prowled down the street until they found a spot, all the way down the block. Then they walked back, toward the west, into the evening sun. She put on a pair of huge sunglasses, way too big for her narrow face. He groped for his in his breast pocket, but he’d left them in the jacket. Damn, he muttered to himself. Otherwise, he stayed silent as they walked on, hoping she would find something to say.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They reached the corner and entered the restaurant. The mix of aromas put him on guard. He paused inside the door, as his sundazzled eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Not noticing that he’d stopped, she continued to an empty table. Loopy chick, all alone in her own world. Then, missing him, she turned. He lurched onward, cutting off a waiter carrying a big tray balanced on his upturned hand. The waiter pirouetted and swung the tray around, tilting it into its arc, to keep from spilling the contents. “I’m sorry,” he said, but the waiter had already scurried around behind him. Across the room, she covered her eyes and shook her head, but he could make out her lips pulling back into a smile.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He made his way over and sat down. She smiled at him and shook her head again, like his mother did sometimes. He smiled back, trying to work up a dimple, but he was worried she’d think he was grimacing, so he quit. Please say something. It was a small table, with a candle between them. Even in the dimness he could see some fine wrinkles at the corners of her mouth. But those thighs, oh my. Jesus, just don’t blow it this time. Please say something. Think of something to say, dammit. He gazed around the room. On the wall was a poster, similar to the one in her basement massage room, </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What’s with those guys?” he blurted, pointing toward the poster. “You know, the girl and the guy with blue skin, on the back of the big bird. You’ve got those same characters on the wall in your apartment.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, them. That’s Lakshmi and Vishnu. They’re riding on Garuda. They’re Hindu gods and goddesses.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">The same waiter came by and asked for their order. She ordered for him, explaining what everything was, and what it was made from. He said OK to everything, but if you were to have asked him what he was about to get, he would not have been able to repeat a single item. Then she started to tell him about the Hindu pantheon. But it was too much, was Ganesha the man with the elephant’s trunk or the curry with split peas. The food came, and she chattered away, about a yoga retreat in <st1:place w:st="on">Himalaya</st1:place> she was planning to go to some day. The names of the foods, the gods, the towns and the rivers were tumbling around in his head. The dishes were tastier than he expected, and soon they were finished eating.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the dishes were cleared, she got up and went to the rest room. When she returned, he noticed she had taken the clip from her hair, which now fell free around her shoulders. She sat down again and took his hand, and with her eyes closed, ran the fingers of her other hand up and down the inside of his forearm. A smile formed on her lips. She opened her eyes and asked, “Are you ready to go?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Before he could say yes, the waiter came with the check. She reached for it, but before she could take it, he slammed his hand over it and said, “This one’s mine.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s my treat, really. I invited you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But after that massage and all, I’ll get the check…” He smiled his smile again, and this time it worked. She smiled back at him, softly. He reached to his back pocket, but his wallet was not there.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Damn, I’m sorry. I left my wallet in my jacket pocket. It’s in Steely. Hang on, I’ll be back in a flash.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, wait, you’re going to need these.” She fished out her keys from her purse. He took them and dashed out the door.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then he remembered. Holy fucking shit! The check. I was supposed to drop off the support check this afternoon. He ran to the car and got his phone out of his pocket, and called Cortney.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s me,” he said when she answered. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Where in the fuck are you? You said you were going to drop off the check. If I don’t deposit it tomorrow, my rent check’s going to bounce. AGAIN, dammit, you lame ass son of a bitch.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I meant to do it. Don’t worry, I’ll drop it off—it’ll be in your mailbox by morning—I promise.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No way, mister. I trust your lame ass about as far I can throw it, and right about now, I’d like to throw into the middle lane of the Beltway.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I swear, by morning!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Look, if that check is not here by six o’clock today, I’m calling the sheriff.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Jeeze, it’s twenty til, and anyway, the bank’s not even open…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Read my lips, buddy boy. Six or the sheriff. I’ll get your ass so garnished you won’t have coffee money.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, come on, let’s be fair…” he said, but the screen on the phone was reading Call Ended.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He stood there in the street and realized sweat was soaking his armpits. I could get over there in ten minutes, if I catch the lights, fifteen at the most. I’ll call the restaurant on the fly and explain. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He got in and fired up Steely. 230,000 miles on the odometer, and it lights right up. Not too shabby. Then he pulled into traffic and gunned it. Damn. I knew these things were slugs, but man, this thing can’t get out of its own way. Come on, baby, let’s move!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He caught a light and dialed information. What was the name of that restaurant? Anna Putna? Anna Gishnu? I’m sorry sir, we have no listing under that name. Dammit, what was that name. It’s on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Georgia Avenue</st1:address></st1:street>—or is it <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Bonifant Street</st1:address></st1:street>—it’s right on the corner…I’m sorry, sir, I can’t find it by address. Shit, no turning back now, I’m halfway there.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He pulled up at her house at 5:56. She was at the door, with <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Willow</st1:place></st1:city> beside her. The little girl had her hands hooked in the woman’s belt, and was leaning sideways. When she saw her father, she released her grip and ran down the walk toward him. “DaaaaDEEEEEEE!” she cried, breaking off into a pure, unrestrained scream. She leaped at him and he caught her on the fly, and lifted her high over his head. This little sliver of ribs and skinny hips, flailing stick arms and legs. A mop of brunette curls, a cherub’s mouth. Out from it came another DaaaaDEEEEEEEEEEE that was so loud and high pitched it shredded space. “I’m getting rocky road, wocky woad, wocky toad,” she sang. He tossed her in the air and caught her, causing more squealing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“She said you promised to take her to Lickety Split. Remember, for starting kindergarten, you promised.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Cortney, I’m sorry, something came up.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You <i>bastard</i>, you promised her. Are you going to let her down again?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I did promise her. But, SHIT, I gotta get this car back. He lifted the child on his shoulders with her legs around his neck, fished out his wallet, and handed her the check. The little girl wrapped her arms around his head and beat her heels against his chest. “Wocky woad, wocky toad,” she sang.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What the fuck. “OK, OK, I’ll take her. I gotta run, though. Let’s go, Sweetie.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, what time are you going to get her back? She’s got school tomorrow.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Don’t worry, we’ll just be a little while. OK, Sweetie, we’re on our way.” He swung her down from his shoulders and carried her on his arm to the car, her little arms locked around his neck.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When they got in, she asked, “What car is this, Daddy?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“This is Steely, Sweetie. It belongs to a friend of mine.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But where is the car seat?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Don’t worry, Sweetie, this is a very safe car. It’s big and strong and made of steel. That’s why it’s named Steely.” Damn, I can’t take her with me—I better drop her off at Ma’s; it’s just across <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Dale Drive</st1:address></st1:street>. She’s got a phone book, and I can call the restaurant from there. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Daddy, are we really getting ice cream?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We will, Sweetie, just not right now. Daddy screwed up again. I’ve got to take you to Gramma’s for a little while. Then maybe we can go get something good.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Rocky road, right, Daddy?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Rocky road, Sweetie. With great big chunks of chocolate.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“And marshmallows, too, Daddy!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“And boulders of chocolate.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“And marshboulders!” She paused, and her brow changed from sunshine to stormcloud. “Daddy, what did you screw up this time?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I think I might be making a very nice person angry at me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You mean Mommy?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, I always make your Mommy angry. I don’t mean to, you know. But right now I think I might be making someone else very angry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Why, Daddy?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I don’t know, Sweetie, I don’t know. I was trying hard to be nice, but I guess I made some bad decisions along the way.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What’s a decision?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“A decision is like a choice, Sweetie, something you choose, like rocky road instead of strawberry.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I hate strawberry. Daddy, did you choose to have me?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“That’s what Mommy said.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“She’s right, Sweetie, I did choose to have you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Was that a bad choice, too?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, Sweetie, having you was the best choice I ever made.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But you make me angry sometimes. Like when you say we’re getting ice cream and then we don’t.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m sorry, Sweetie. I don’t mean to make you angry. I don’t mean to disappoint you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Mommy says you never grew up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Mommy’s right, Sweetie. Daddy needs to grow up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They pulled into the driveway at his mother’s house and went inside. The woman was in the kitchen, putting a frozen dinner in the microwave. She heard his footsteps in the hall, and without pausing in her task, called out, “Is that you, Terry? Your things are in the drier, but I couldn’t get that greasy stuff out of the seat of your jeans. I’m afraid they’re ru…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She stopped her sentence when she finally turned and saw her granddaughter. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh my god, you brought her. Oh, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Willow</st1:city></st1:place>, come here, darling, give me a hug.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The girl walked over and gave the woman a dutiful hug.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We’re going to get some ice cream, Gramma.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma, can you watch her for a little while? I’ve got to run an errand.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Of course, darling. But have you had dinner yet?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma, I already ate, and anyway, I gotta get this car back to the owner, before someone gets really <st1:place w:st="on">PO</st1:place>’d.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Alright, then. Oh! You didn’t bring the part for the toilet, did you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, Ma, it’s in my truck.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Darling, it’s getting worse. Now the valve is leaking too. Water was all over the floor. I put a bucket under it, but if fills up in a half hour. Will you take a look at it before you go?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma, I told you, I really gotta go now.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Please, darling, just take a look at it. Maybe there’s something you can do.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ma!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Please! Just take a look.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Alright Ma, alright.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He spun around and flew down the basement stairs. The packing nut on the toilet shutoff valve was leaking in a steady trickle. The bucket was brimming. He went back to the ancient workbench, to look for a wrench, but couldn’t find anything.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He hollered up the stairs, “Ma, where’s Dad’s toolbox?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Darling, I think you took it after he died. You took all his tools, remember.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shit, I did. But damn, there’s got to be some pliers here somewhere.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Somewhere. He rooted around some more, but found nothing. Hey, maybe there’s something in the trunk of Steely. He dashed up the stairs and opened the truck, and there, in a little compartment was a plasticized canvas pouch with some tools in it. He admired the wrenches, lightweight, but well machined. All metric, though, dammit. But there, laying in the spare tire well was a rusty pair of pliers. That’ll do. May ruin the valve with it, but maybe I can stop the leak, or at least slow it down.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then he ran back into the house and down the basement. The bucket was overflowing, and water was running across the floor. He poured the bucket into the toilet, and grabbed the nut with the pliers and turned. Just enough pressure, just enough twist. Too much and the nut will deform. Easy, easy…then the pliers slipped and the handles snapped together, pinching the heel of his hand. DAMMIT that hurt. That’s worth a nice blood blister. But the leak had almost stopped, just a drip every few seconds. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At last, he dashed back up stairs, kissed his mother, and once more lifted his daughter over his head. “I’ll be back real soon, Sweetie. You keep Gramma company for a little while, OK.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“OK, Daddy. Hurry back.” He set her down and flew out the door and into Steely, and took off for the restaurant.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was ten after seven when he got back to the restaurant. There was an empty spot outside the door, and he whipped into it. Then he went into the restaurant and found their waiter, the same guy he almost collided with before dinner. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What happened to the girl I was with?” he asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“She’s gone, pretty sore, too. She paid the bill, and then the police showed up. I think she went home in a cab.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Damn. I guess I’ll run back to her house. As he started back toward the door, he saw a patrol car with its dome lights flashing. Shit. What now? He walked out and saw two cops standing in front of the car. One was bent over the windshield, trying to read the VIN number, and the other was on a portable radio. The waiter had come out behind him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“That’s him, that’s the one who took the car,” he said to the cops, pointing at him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The two cops looked up. The one with the radio asked, “Is your name Terrence Wolfe?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes, sir.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Did you take this car?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, I sort of borrowed it, but I’m bringing it back now.” He held out the keys.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I see that, but a complaint has already been filed.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But I didn’t really steal it—I just needed it for a little while. I tried to call, but I couldn’t remember the name of the restaurant. You’re not going to bust me, are you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The waiter interrupted, “He stuck her with the check, too, Officer.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sorry son, you’re coming with us,” said the cop. Then he cuffed him and said, “And by the way, that’s a handicapped space you parked in. That’s gonna cost you another two-fifty. Let’s go, Mr. Wolfe. Watch your head.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The smack of the bells against the door gave her a start. When she looked up and saw who it was, she folded her arms across her chest.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hi, Donna,” he said cheerfully. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She scowled and replied, “Yeah, so what’s up? I heard you hit a rough spot.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Her attitude surprised him. He smiled lamely and said, “I wouldn’t know. I’m still waiting for a smooth stretch.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She relaxed her arms and cocked her head. “Did you really steal a car?” she asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Where did you hear about that?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“In the paper. My dad showed it to me when it came out a few days ago. He saw your name, and remembered you from high school. I saved the article, but it doesn’t say a whole lot. Here, take a look.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She reached under the counter and pulled out a copy of the Gazette, and passed it across to him. He turned it around and leaned over it, with his elbows on the counter and his head in his hands. He read aloud from the crime report:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 1.25in 0.0001pt 1in;">A <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Takoma Park</st1:place></st1:city> man was convicted of unauthorized use of a woman's car after skipping out on the check during their first date. The man, Terrence Wolfe, 24, pleaded no contest last week to unlawfully driving away a vehicle. The police say Mr. Wolfe had dinner with the woman in September at a restaurant in downtown <st1:place w:st="on">Silver Spring</st1:place>. She told investigators that Mr. Wolfe had said he forgot his wallet in her car and so she offered him the keys. The police said Mr. Wolfe then took off in the car. Gerri Daley, a defense lawyer, said Mr. Wolfe was a ‘very nice man who made some bad decisions.’'</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s true, then, isn’t it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“A man who made some bad decisions. That’s just what I said to Willow, the night it happened.” He looked up at her, into her big dark eyes, which became distorted as his own eyes began to well up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Terry?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He said nothing at first. She reached out and put her hand over his. Then he told her all about how it happened, and how she refused to withdraw the complaint. How his mother had to come to the station with <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Willow</st1:place></st1:city> to bail him out. And how Cortney was petitioning to change the joint custody arrangement to supervised visitation—even though the charge was reduced from car theft to use without consent. In the end, it was a five hundred dollar fine, plus the two fifty for parking in a handicap space. At least the sixty day sentence was suspended.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But I decided to go back to school, Don. I signed up for a night class in computer drafting at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Montgomery</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">College</st1:placetype></st1:place>. The old man said he’d pay my tuition—if I pass the course. He said he needs a good draftsman. And if I do OK, they’ll let me into the pre-architecture program.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, Terry, that’s really great. It’s crazy to say this, after all that’s happened, but I’m happy for you.” She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m kinda happy, too. My mother’s going to help me with a lawyer, to fight the visitation suit. And I’m really looking forward to school again.” He looked into her eyes again, and it was hers, now, that were watery. With his free hand he stroked her cheek. “Hey, Don, what about Friday night? Let’s go to the movies—there’s that new Eastwood flick out now, <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Riviera</st1:place></st1:state>, or something like that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s ‘Grand Torino.’”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, that’s it. So how’s about Fri...” He stopped short. A glint of light had flashed from her hand. Looking down, he saw the ring. She noticed what he saw and pulled her hand away from his, and fingered the ring self consciously.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Terry, I told you I was seeing someone.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I know, but I didn’t think it was that serious.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, it is serious. This is for keeps.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He looked down at the ring again. “Son of a gun. Lucky guy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Terry, it ain’t a guy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What? You mean...”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m lesbian, dude. I’m going to marry a woman. I’m sorry, man—I should have been up front about it. Please don’t think I was jerking you around.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Holy shit! I never saw that one coming. Never in a million years.” He looked up at her again, at her lovely dark eyes, the beautiful brown skin of her face, neck, and arms. Damn, a lesbian. A smile formed, and his dimples blossomed, without even trying. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, congratulations, Don. I guess I knew I never had a chance with you, but I never realized how slim that chance really was. Still, it was nice to hope.” He sighed audibly and shook his head.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Dude, don’t be too weirded out about it. You know, if I wasn’t the way I am, I could go for you. Hey! There’s the meter maid—is she heading for your truck?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh shit—gotta go.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Terry—wait!” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She dashed around from behind the counter, and threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. He hugged her back and whispered, “Wow, holding you makes me wish I were a woman.” She pulled back and gave him a shove that startled him with its force. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Get outta my store, creep!” she said, trying to conceal a smile.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I love you, Donna,” he said, turning toward the door.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I love you, too, Terry. But you better get outta here quick, before I start bawling.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m going, I’m going,” he said. And the bells jangled as he flew out the door.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-66711862474654088482010-03-04T08:17:00.004-05:002010-03-04T08:19:12.752-05:00on Ken Wyner<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Camy%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Ken Wyner is not so much a person as he is an alchemical experience. In a room full of people, he exerts at the same time, overwhelming centripetal and centrifugal forces, and always from the center. He is the summation of boundless love, in no small part derived from the most intense pain--and of sublime visual beauty, likewise informed by a sensitivity to the utter starkness that resides in all corners of the world. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ken, the consummate architectural photographer, is also the designer of his own two homes--an architect in his own right. But above and beyond those worldly talents, his greatest passion, and the force that guides and informs his work, is to tap into the mystic energy that lives in our hearts and spirits, and to weave these into a fabric, into a community. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To that effect, he has launched a blog—how mundane that sounds!—Ken has created a virtual environment, using words and images as the warp and weft he shares with us to weave together.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I recommend a visit to:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.kenwynerword.com/">www.kenwynerword.com</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">and</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.kenwyner.com/">www.kenwyner.com</a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-21503563132261738832010-02-24T14:04:00.000-05:002010-02-24T14:04:39.434-05:00moment of bendingeven though I'm not done with McCoy, another story begins to emerge....<br />
<br />
--aa<br />
<br />
<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Camy%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is a chapter in my life so black, that even with the longest reach of memory, I cannot retrieve a single page that is redeeming. Yet I try.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Kristin was the only woman I ever struck. The price I paid for it was high, because that reflexive, backhanded slap impelled her, several days later, to propose to me, and the lurid bruise it left across her delicate face persuaded me to accept.</div><br />
<br />
to be continued......<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-36642479839360208122010-02-05T12:35:00.000-05:002010-02-05T12:35:26.318-05:00updating...to my friends, few though you may be...<br />
<br />
i've seemingly left the hapless mr mccoy in the lurch, but in actuality i've been sketching out his fate...<br />
<br />
but events have intervened--a flurry of design projects that need to be converted to construction contracts, to keep my business alive. also, having completed the training portion of passive house certification, i have to complete an intense practical exam by the end of the month--all this demands every bit of my (limited) faculties.<br />
<br />
so please stay in touch to see if i let mccoy off the hook, or leave him to stew in the juices of his own brewing.<br />
<br />
cheers--<br />
<br />
--aaUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-35492934723190514382010-01-08T19:44:00.002-05:002010-01-08T19:48:02.403-05:00real good soup<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHmudzW7xP0tDKaGS6sGsJ6-lDMk_rFne9-bRd7XjZlDIKQEpbm4R14YKrsIvFuQ62m8KHjEiUgg7rRCQWpwqhgpvsh5D899gJLWa_4U7IH2F06P_he_vmmlu8nc95QPQzKJw4TINO7io/s1600-h/soup+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHmudzW7xP0tDKaGS6sGsJ6-lDMk_rFne9-bRd7XjZlDIKQEpbm4R14YKrsIvFuQ62m8KHjEiUgg7rRCQWpwqhgpvsh5D899gJLWa_4U7IH2F06P_he_vmmlu8nc95QPQzKJw4TINO7io/s320/soup+002.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><br />
Janet's friends have requested this recipe:<br />
<br />
<b>Santa Fe Sunset Soup with Red Pepper Drizzle</b><br />
From <i>Santa Fe School of Cooking: Flavors of the Southwest</i> by Susan Curtis and Nicole Curtis Ammerman<br />
<br />
<b>Black Bean Soup</b><br />
Makes 8 cups<br />
<br />
2 tbs OO<br />
2c chopped onion<br />
½ c diced carrot (peel if fastidious about these things)<br />
½ c diced celery<br />
4 slices bacon<br />
4 cloves garlic, minced<br />
1 tbs cumin<br />
1 tbs coriander<br />
1# black beans, soaked overnight and drained<br />
8c stock<br />
½ tsp chipotle<br />
1 tbs epazote<br />
<br />
1. heat oil in large sauce pan [or big skillet], add onion, carrot and celery; cook 4-5 min<br />
2. add bacon and garlic; cook 4-5 more min.<br />
3. add remaining ingredients [move to a stock pot if you started in a skillet] and simmer, covered, for 2 hrs, or until beans are done. adj seasoning to taste.<br />
4. place 3 cups of the soup in a blender; puree and return [or puree in place with a mixing stick<br />
Alan’s comment—this came out a little thin—I’d add more beans, or reduce stock to 6-7 cups<br />
<br />
<b><br />
Sweet Corn Bisque</b><br />
Makes 8 cups<br />
<br />
1 tbs OO<br />
1 c diced onion<br />
¾ c diced celery<br />
2 cloves garlic, minced<br />
1 c Hatch chili (typical New Mexico green chili), roasted, peeled, and seeded (unless you prefer more heat)—chopped<br />
4 c sweet corn kernels, frozen is ok<br />
2 baking potatoes, diced (peel if fastidious about these things)<br />
5 c stock<br />
1 c heavy cream<br />
1 ½ tsp salt<br />
½ tsp black pepper<br />
<br />
1. heat oil in large saucepan [or big skillet], add onion and celery; cook for 2 min<br />
2. add garlic and cook for 1 min<br />
3. add remaining ingredients [move to a stock pot if you started in a skillet] and simmer, covered, for 45 min, or until potatoes are done<br />
4. place 3 cups of the soup in a blender; puree and return [or puree in place with a mixing stick<br />
Janet suggests: add the corn at the very end<br />
<br />
To serve: using two pitchers [AA used two 2 cup measuring cups] pour the two soups simultaneously into a bowl. By pouring very slowly, you can regulate the margin between the two soups, pushing and shaping the edge by adjusting the flow from each pitcher.<br />
<br />
<b>Garnish</b> (not photographed, but exquisite!)<br />
<br />
2 red bell peppers, roasted, peeled, seeded<br />
6 cloves garlic<br />
2 tbs hot sauce [AA used sriracha]<br />
1 tsp fresh thyme<br />
1c OO [AA used ½ c]<br />
<br />
1. combine everything except oil in a blender or mini processor<br />
2. with blender running, slowly add the oil<br />
3. drizzle on the plated soup in a circle or spiral patternUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-74886178588966430962009-12-16T09:01:00.021-05:002010-03-31T15:08:16.603-04:00LIMITS OF DISTURBANCE[update january 2, 2010]<br />
<br />
CHAPTER ONE: TROUBLE<br />
<br />
The camera flash brought him back into the moment. His mind had wandered, back to the last time he was busted, caught in the act with that girl from Satellite Beach. Got off easy that time, misdemeanors. A hundred each, for “being naked in his person.” Fifty for the pot. Or was it the other way around?<br />
<br />
“Ditch the shit!” she’d hissed at him, when the searchlight interrupted their ecstasy. But by the time he wriggled back into his jeans, and fidgeted the bag out of his pocket, the two cops had shumbled down the dune, playing their five cell lamps on them all the way. All he could do was hand over the bag, grinning lamely. Wonder how long they were watching...<br />
<br />
“Give me your right hand,” ordered the little blonde. Her hands were warm and moist, as she applied his fingers to the inkpad. His were cold. “Now the left.” He could smell her perfume. In her earlobe was a gold stud in the shape of a heart. Maybe she’s not a dyke. Maybe it’s the Kevlar vest, the blocky blue trousers, the dorky shoes—take all that away and maybe she's kind of cute.<br />
<br />
He gave her a wellpracticed wink, one that he knew forced out a dimple. She screwed up her face, trying not to smile back, but two quick snorts erupted from her nostrils. Smiling, she shook her head and said, “Please take a seat on the bench, Mr. Wolfe.” <br />
<br />
He sat down. He could hear the buzz from the fluorescent lights over his head. Damn. This time it’s serious. Car theft. With that stupid prior, looking at some time, for sure. What time is it? 11:30. Damn, I should be rolling around in the sack with her right now. How did things get so out of whack?<br />
<br />
<br />
CHAPTER TWO: PAIN<br />
<br />
He met her at the coop, where she worked a register. Occasionally, he’d stop in to pick up something for lunch—a tray of California rolls, or a sandwich, since they started carrying meat. He’d fiddle around at the power bar display until her line was the shortest, and chat with her while she rung him up. <br />
<br />
Her name was Shelly. She was putting in her time there to get the discount on groceries. Her massage practice brought in some cash; once in a while, she earned a little more giving yoga lessons. <br />
<br />
Drumming was her passion; most evenings she hung out with a drumming troop, upstairs from the music shop. He’d heard the savage rhythms spilling out onto the sidewalk, the nights he was out for a walk. It seemed to him that their pounding had no beginning, no end. The beat followed him until he turned the corner, heading home.<br />
<br />
But he forgot about her until one morning last week when his back went out. <br />
<br />
A day prior, the boss had sent him to pick up another load of sheetrock, and deliver it to one of their projects in Ferndale. Wolfe flipped down the tailgate, and told the fork lift operator at the yard to keep loading the truck until the rubber cushions under the truckbed sat just touched the rear axel—if he brought enough back rock, maybe he’d save another long, dreary trip the next day.<br />
<br />
The truck was only a half ton, and it wallowed in the ruts and potholes of the unpaved yard. The rock hung over two feet out beyond the tailgate, and the edge of the bottom sheets dragged when he cleared the apron and moved out into the road. He prayed no cops would see him like that, ass dragging and front end floating. He prayed harder that the tires would hold out, because there was no way the jack would lift the back end with that load, and the spare—if it had any air in it at all—was worn to the cords.<br />
<br />
Suddenly he remembered the discs he’s been carrying for three days. Shit. More frigging late fees. So he swerved into the left lane, and barely making the light, hung a u-turn. The truck yawed sickeningly, but finally straightened out without anything slipping off, and he drove back the two miles to the video store on West 9. <br />
<br />
He pulled up to the curb under a sign that said No Parking. He was going to shove the tapes into the slot and run, but peering through the glare on the storefront, he got a glimpse of the girl behind the counter. He pulled open the door, jangling a thong of sleigh bells. “Yo Don,” he said to the girl. <br />
<br />
“It’s Donna to you, buster,” she replied, wrinkling her nose at him.<br />
<br />
Donna was more than a head shorter than Wolff, with raven black hair except for a crimson streak that fell across her forehead. Indian, or Filipina, or something. How do you tell? Those mixed girls are always a knockout. She was wearing skin tight elastic pants trimmed to look like jeans, and a crinkly tube top. A tantalizing ring of flesh bulged over the top of the jeans. Man would I like to... <br />
<br />
She notices him staring. “Hey, creep, don’t drool on my counter.”<br />
<br />
He shoved his right fist under his T-shirt and bumpbumped it over his heart. “Kathump, kathump, kathump,” he said, while rolling his eyes. "Hey, remember that Eastwood flick you recommended? Where he plays the over-the-hill bounty hunter?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, it's in. Been holding it for you forever, for crissake.” She leaned to reach under the counter, and skillfully, without moving his head to give himself away, his eyes sought the momentary droop of her top. She retrieved the disc and passed it across to him.<br />
<br />
“Thanks. You want to come over and watch it with me?”<br />
<br />
“No thanks. Seen it, twice. Anyway, aren’t you back together with Cortney?”<br />
<br />
“Man, I tried. All we did was drink and fight. I had to get out of there—I’m crazy enough on my own, without that...” He started to say bitch. <br />
<br />
“You know, Don, it’s not like I hate her or anything. We just set each other off. I wanted it to work out, but maybe I’m not cut out for being married.”<br />
<br />
“I never understood why you got married in the first place. You were the brainy one, going off to college and all.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, guess I wasn’t as smart as I seemed. Everyone wanted her to get an abortion—even Cortney—but I talked her out of it.”<br />
<br />
“Jeez, I never knew. Hey, how old is Willow now, six, seven?”<br />
<br />
“No, she just turned five, but she’s smart as hell. A smart aleck, too. I guess in the long run, I’m glad it turned out the way it did. She’s really cool.”<br />
<br />
“Hey, is that your truck? The meter maid just parked across the street.”<br />
<br />
“Shit! Gotta go. But hey, why don’t come over tonight; we’ll get a pizza.”<br />
<br />
“I’d really like to, but I’m sorta seeing someone.” <br />
<br />
“Oh. Oh well, lucky guy, I guess.”<br />
<br />
“You better go, looks like she’s gonna write you up.” <br />
<br />
A short, heavy set, grey haired woman in a uniform was waddling across the street toward his truck. He grabbed the tape and dashed out the door. The grey haired woman was already jotting down his tag number.<br />
<br />
“Sorry—I didn’t mean to go in. I was just going to put some tapes in the slot. I’ll move it right now. Please don’t give me a ticket.”<br />
<br />
He smiled down at her. She was not impressed, and looked up at him with a haggard face. “Once I write down a number, son, I have to issue a ticket.”<br />
<br />
“Ok, but please don’t cite me for a no parking zone. That’s fifty buck, right? Please! Just make a meter offense. Please!” He folded his hands like he was praying and rolled his eyes upward. “Oh please!” he repeated, holding his pose.<br />
<br />
“All right, son, just this once. If I see that truck parked illegally again, I’m going call for a boot. She smiled back at him and shook her head. On the form, she checked off Expired Meter. Then she signed it and ripped it off the clipboard, and handed it over. <br />
<br />
“Now move it quick, before someone sees us,” she said.<br />
<br />
“Thankyouthankyou.” He wanted to lean over and kiss her on her head, but had enough sense to quit while he was ahead. Instead, he jumped into the truck and rolled down the window. He shouted to her as she walked back across the street, “Thankyouthankyou, I won’t forget it.” Then he started the engine, shoved it in gear, and pulled away, slipping the clutch like crazy so as not to leave a pile of sheetrock on the pavement.<br />
<br />
<br />
By the time he arrived at the site, the chiroqueros were piling into their rusted out Corolla. He dashed out of his truck and up to their car. He looked in and saw the guy in the back pulling six Dos Equis out of a cooler. The driver rolled down the window, but did not kill the engine. “Pasa,” he said.<br />
<br />
“Yo, Carlos, give me a hand unloading this rock.”<br />
<br />
“No way, dude. I waited for two hours for you. I gotta pay these guys for nothing, sitting around waiting for your sorry ass. Unload it yourself.” Carlos rolled down the window and pulled away, blown muffler spluttering. <br />
<br />
He walked back to his truck and stewed. He could drive back home, and return in the morning when there would be someone to help unload. But the old man would be expecting him at the office in the morning. How could he explain being so late? Then a big raindrop plopped on the hood, then another.<br />
<br />
Shhhhit. Wolfe got back into the truck once again, and backed it up the driveway, and across the lawn, right up to the stoop. Fuck them goddam azaleas.<br />
<br />
Then he got out of the truck, and started unloading the rock, at first tearing the tabs that bound the books, and carrying in the sheets one by one. The rain gradually intensified. Halfway through the load, it was pouring. His shirt was drenched. So he began carrying in unbroken books, two sheets at a time. Instead of distributing the sheets throughout the house, he stacked them just inside the front door. As the pile grew, the floor sagged.<br />
<br />
At last he was done. His shoulders ached, and there was a dull pain in his back, just below his belt. He fired up the truck and started to pull out. The tires spun in the wet grass, but he feathered off the throttle until the truck slowly caught enough traction to ease back to the driveway. As he turned into the driveway, the tire on the pavement caught full traction, but the one still in the grass spun wildly, slinging mud across the front of the house. Bloody fucking hell. I’m outta here. On his way home, he picked up two six packs of Bud, a big bag of Doritos, and a tub of bean dip. He fell asleep somewhere into the second six, while Hackman worked over Eastwood with his pointed toe boots, as Eastwood lay helpless in the dirt.<br />
<br />
Next morning he woke with a full bladder. As he swung his legs over the bed to get up, there was a sudden stab of pain in his lower back, like a jolt from a cattle prod. Any movement produced sheer agony. He could not stand. But he had to pee, urgently now. <br />
<br />
He managed to roll himself onto the floor, prone, and slither along, grasping at furniture and door jambs, and creeping on his elbows, until he made it to the bathroom. He paused next to the tub and laid his head down, his cheek on the cold tile. His bladder now nearly bursting, he raised his knee over the rim of the tub, and heaved himself over. The pain was so intense he saw flashes of light before his eyes, but at least he was able to release himself. <br />
<br />
Then he just lay there in the tub, concentrating on his breathing, After a few moments, he groped for the shower valve, and turned on the shower as hot as he could stand it. Slowly he worked himself up on his knees, and let the water work on the spasm. Finally he was able to stand.<br />
<br />
He found the bottle of Tylenol 3 left over the bike accident, when he broke his collar bone. Two tabs left. Down the hatch. He went back to his room and found the three left over Buds. They were warm, but not too bad under the circumstances. <br />
<br />
Then he called the boss and begged off for the day. All the old man cared about was whether he was going to make a worker’s comp claim. <br />
<br />
The Tylenol started taking hold, and his back began to relax a little. He opened another Bud and rewound the tape. Then he fast forwarded back to where he left off. But once again sleep overtook him before he reached the end.<br />
<br />
It was nearly 3 when he awoke. The pain had returned. That’s when he remembered Shelly. Her card was in his wallet. It had two blue handprints on it, like a child would leave on a finger painting. The card read:<br />
<br />
A Nurturing Blend of Swedish Massage, Caring Touch,<br />
Deep Tissue Massage, and Intuitive Energy Work<br />
<br />
He dialed the number, and she answered the phone.<br />
<br />
“Hello.”<br />
<br />
“Shelly?”<br />
<br />
“This is she.”<br />
<br />
“Shelly, hi. This is Terry.”<br />
<br />
“Terry?”<br />
<br />
“Terry, you know, the guy, uh, the guy with the California rolls.”<br />
<br />
“Oh yeah. Hi Terry, what’s up?”<br />
“Uh…” He paused. His head was spinning. Eastwood was cringing in the dirt.<br />
<br />
She could hear his heavy breathing. “Are you ok?”<br />
<br />
“It’s my back,” he croaked. “I can barely move. Can you help me?”<br />
<br />
“I’ve got someone coming in at three thirty. Can you make it over here at five?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah. If I don’t blow my brains out first.” <br />
<br />
“What?”<br />
<br />
He sighed a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. Thanks for letting me come in. I’ll be there at five.”<br />
<br />
<br />
CHAPTER THREE: DISTRESS <br />
<br />
The drive to the address she gave him was hell. Pushing in the heavy clutch pedal caused him jolts of pain so sharp that it seemed like arcs of light were flashing before his eyes. He faked it through stop signs, coasting in third, and when he had to come to a complete stop, he’d just mash on the brakes and let the engine stall. Then he’d shift into granny gear without clutching, and hit the ignition switch, letting the starter motor get him rolling again. Then just bang it into third. Pure brutality. On top of his back spasm, he sensed the agony he was causing to the gear train. It was close to six when turned down her street.<br />
<br />
The address was for a trim little bungalow. Attached to a porch column was a flag with some cartoon character on it. He limped up the walk, which ran along a chain link fence on the side of the property. His T shirt snagged the branch of a rose bush that grew from the other side. As he tugged to free it, a german shepherd came flying across the neighbor’s yard, barking furiously, and reared up with his front legs against the top of the fence. It barked so savagely that it made sucking sounds when it inhaled. <br />
<br />
He lurched back at first, but then approached the dog and said soothingly, “Cool baby, be cooool.” The dog paused, and he offered it his hand to sniff. The dog calmly studied the hand for a moment, and then suddenly snapped at it. He drew it back quickly.<br />
<br />
“Alright, alright now, you be cool, and I’ll be cool. Just be cooool.” He slowly, very slowly, offered his hand once more, and this time the dog sniffed it. <br />
<br />
“There, there, now, baby, it’s cool, reeeeal cool.” He extended his hand and stroked the dog’s head, and then worked the soft flesh behind its ear. The dog licked at his hand.<br />
<br />
“Alright, baby, gotta go now. You be good now.” He turned and walked up to the porch steps. He ascended a step with his right foot, and swung the left up to meet the right on the same step, and so hobbled to the top.<br />
<br />
To one side of the porch was a small pink bicycle with training wheels and streamers attached to the end of the hand grips. On the other side was a three wheeled baby buggy, the kind joggers use.<br />
<br />
He gently rapped on the screen door, and a man wearing a loosened tie and a plastic ID badge on a lanyard answered. <br />
<br />
“Yes, may I help you?” he asked. A young woman carrying an infant on her hip peered around an interior doorway. <br />
<br />
“I’m here for a massage, but maybe I have the wrong place.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, you want Shelly. She lives in the basement. Go around to your left—she’s all the way round back. Watch out for that dog next door; she’s vicious.”<br />
<br />
He thanked him and hobbled back down. As he walked down the sloping side yard, muddy from the last night’s rain, the dog walked parallel to him, across the fence, making a high pitched whining sound.<br />
<br />
Around the back there was a garden patch, maybe six by six. He could smell a rosemary plant at the corner of it, and saw some other herbs he couldn’t identify. A few neatly staked plants bore tiny bright green tomatoes.<br />
<br />
Under a deck that served the main floor were some concrete steps that led to the basement door. A cat was sleeping on the brick wall flanking the steps, where some slanting sun had penetrated. He did his best not to wake it as he one-stepped it down to the door.<br />
<br />
She was waiting by the door, and held it for him as he entered. At the same time, the cat jumped down and darted past him, into the basement. They were standing in a narrow hallway, barely enough room for the two of them.<br />
<br />
“I had given up on you. I’ve got to be at practice at seven. We’re doing a drum-vigil at city hall tomorrow. It’s just too late to do anything…oh, but look at you! Turn around.”<br />
<br />
He turned, and she ran two fingers of each hand down the sides of his spine, and then back up again. She stopped just above his kidneys and circled a point with her fingers. He grimaced and tensed up. She lifted his shirt and put her palm over the spot. “Right here, isn’t it. I can feel the heat.”<br />
<br />
Her hand was soothing. “That’s it,” he said softly. “It’s like a dagger that someone keeps twisting.” <br />
<br />
“You know I should charge you for a no-show. Never mind, come on in. I usually do ninety minutes, but I’ll give you an hour. OK?”<br />
<br />
“Anything, I’ll take anything. Thank you.”<br />
<br />
She led him through a small kitchen that smelled of curry, and then through an interior room with a boiler and water heater on one side, and a toilet, sink, and stall shower on the other. He had to duck under radiator pipes to make it through, into a small room with a massage table. There was one window with a sill about five feet above the ground, with a silk scarf for a curtain. Under the window was a small stand with a lamp and a carved stone statue of a man with an elephant head sitting in a yoga pose. On a shelf at the bottom of the stand was a boom box and some containers of oil. On the opposite wall was a print of a Hindu looking man and woman, flying on the back of a half-man, half-bird creature. The man had blue skin. A thin, colorfully patterned carpet covered the middle of the concrete floor. Otherwise the room was bare.<br />
<br />
He turned around and once again they were face to face. He couldn’t decide if she was attractive or not. She was tall and slender, and carried her head high. Her cheek bones and chin were prominent, almost manly. Her hair, just beginning to grey, was pulled straight back and fastened with a leather clip. She had wide-set, soft grey eyes, but they were distorted by the thick lenses of her metal framed glasses. A crack ran through the corner of on lens. <br />
<br />
She was wearing a black sleeveless tank top and billowy, almost translucent pants cut like pajama bottoms. Her feet were bare. The muscles of her arms and shoulders were well defined. He could smell a trace of garlic in her breath. <br />
<br />
“Thanks again,” he said. “I’m really sorry…” <br />
<br />
She cut him off. “Never mind, Terry. I’m going to step outside so you can undress. If you want, you can leave your underpants on. There’s a hanger on that pipe for your clothes. When you’re undressed, you can lie face up on the table, and pull the blanked over yourself.” <br />
<br />
Then she handed him a glass of water. “I want you to drink this before we begin. It’s to carry away the toxins. OK, I’ll be back in a minute.” She left the room and closed the door. <br />
<br />
He downed the water, not realizing how thirsty he was until the first gulp. Then he took off his clothes, stopping at his shorts. How many girls have seen me buck naked? None of them complained, either. But he didn't want to embarrass her, so he left them on.<br />
<br />
She returned carrying a CD, and walked across the room to the little stand, and then put the disc into the boombox. It played the alien sounds of a sitar and some sort of handstruck drum. “I hope you like ragas,” she said. “It helps me to listen to your body.” She went back to the little stand, and applied some oil to her hands. As she stood in front of the lamp, he could see the silhouette of her thighs through her gauzy pants. They seemed firm. Would they yield, would they embrace him? Would they shut him out?<br />
<br />
Then she started the massage, beginning with his upper body. Looking up at her as she worked on his temples and scalp, he noticed the hair in her arm pits. Thick, black and curly, like a man’s. Then he saw that her eyes were closed. Was there something about him that turned her off, too? That silly tattoo? He got it that night he took Cortney to get the morning glory vine up her back, around the back of her neck. How ugly it got, when the colors faded and the blue ink smudged beneath her skin.<br />
<br />
“Your eyes are closed.”<br />
<br />
She laughed softly. “I think I see better with my hands sometimes.” <br />
<br />
Yeah, right. He tried to relax. The bending notes of the sitar sounded weird; he could not pick up a rhythm or a melody. The ceiling above was unfinished—bare joists, some electrical cables, some pipes. Above the joists was a diagonal pattern of rough sawn boards. It’s weird to think all those guys are dead--the carpenter who nailed all those boards down, the plumber and electrician, dead. <br />
<br />
“Try and concentrate on your breathing,” she said, working his legs and feet. “I want you to relax. Imagine the toxins flushing out of your muscles.”<br />
<br />
When she started working on his arms, she noticed the bump in his collar bone, and gently traced with her fingers where the halves of the bone had overlapped and knit back together. “That must have hurt,” she said.<br />
<br />
“I guess. I was high at the time. Riding my bike and hit a patch of wet leaves. Going way too fast, as usual.”<br />
<br />
“I like bicycling,” she replied.<br />
<br />
“I had to bicycle because my license was suspended. I haven’t ridden much since they gave it back, though. Maybe I should take it up again and break the other collar bone. The shoulder on the broken side doesn’t stick out near as far as my good shoulder. It makes me look deformed.”<br />
<br />
She gripped his upper arm, and pulled her oiled hands down to his wrist. She smiled and said, “You have a beautiful body.” Then she closed her eyes and worked silently.<br />
<br />
The music began to take on a shimmering quality, and as she worked, he discovered an underlying rhythm that guided his breathing. He watched her work, her own muscles tautening and relaxing with each stroke. He noticed droplets of perspiration in the hair under her arms.<br />
<br />
“I like your body, too,” he told her.<br />
<br />
“OK, I need you to turn over. Let’s get to work on this knot.” He turned and she worked his shoulders, his spine, his buttocks. He gazed at the woman on the poster, with her gold headdress, and bare midriff. She had those almond eyes, that sly smile, like Donna. The notes of the sitar became the woman’s lips, her darting tongue; the drum beats the tireless driving force of the blue skinned man. His breathing animated the wings of the bird-man creature. All the while her hands worked, in long continuous strokes, or pausing at intervals up his spine, silently whirling, drilling, pulsing. <br />
<br />
After the massage, his back still hurt, but the pain felt somehow in proportion to the rest of his body. She handed him another glass of water, and invited him to sit down at a table by the back door. She sat down in the other chair, and for a while they chatted about odd stuff. He told her a little about his job, but when she asked more personal questions, he changed the subject. The she launched into a monologue about his diet, how he was functioning in a state of semidehydration, how growth hormones in mass produced meat could be causing stresses that leave him vulnerable to injury. He liked her voice, and the way she emphasized her points by pulling her shoulders back and thrusting out her chest. <br />
<br />
While she was speaking, the cat leapt into his lap—so softly, he almost didn’t notice—more like it just materialized there. He stroked it gently and half listened to her. His core muscles needed to be strengthened. He should stretch before exerting himself. The cat kneaded his thigh and then snuggled its head into his crotch. He expressed agreement with her from time to time, mostly just a silent nodding. Once in a while he’d catch her eye and smile, but otherwise he watched her hand gestures as she spoke, or gazed around the room at the glass canisters of rice, beans, and grain. A pair of sticks with padded balls hung on one wall. The last slanting rays of sun came through the window, falling on the side of her face. It illuminated the down on her cheek, and highlighted the line of her nose, lips, and chin.<br />
<br />
“May I...may I...kiss you?” he interrupted. She fell silent, her lips slightly parted. He leaned over toward her; she sat motionless, eyes locked on his. He leaned further and placed his lips against hers, and closed his eyes. Easy boy. Don't push it. Wait for a sigh, a touch of her tongue. For a moment, she remained inert, then her lips awoke, parted wider, and she leaned her head to gain better purchase with his lips. OK then. He reached under the table and put his hand on her knee. At that movement the cat sprang from his lap and landed on the floor. Thu-thud. She pulled back abruptly and said, “You have to go now.”<br />
<br />
Damn. Always moving in too fast. He rose up and said “I’m sorry. How much do I owe…”<br />
<br />
“Please…GO!” She stood up and faced him, her arms at her side, fists clenched. <br />
<br />
He backed away, knocking his chair over. The seatback hit the floor with a crash.<br />
<br />
“I’m sorry, pleases let me pay you for…”<br />
<br />
“Just…GO!” These words broke into falsetto. She covered her face and sobbed something he didn’t understand. Holy shit, I’m outta here. <br />
<br />
He turned and bolted out the screen door. It slammed shut behind him. As he passed by the little garden, he saw the man from upstairs leaning over the back porch. The man’s wife was behind him, asking what’s going on. He turned and said to the man, “Nothing happened. Nothing!” Sobbing came through her kitchen window. As he rounded the corner and started walking up the side yard, the german shepherd flung itself against the fence, barking and snarling at him all the way to the front yard. The dog continued to bark even as he got back into the truck and pulled away. <br />
<br />
<br />
CHAPTER FOUR: NAMASTE <br />
<br />
At the sound of the sleigh bells smacking the door, she looked up and saw him come in. “Boy, do you look rugged. That life in the fast lane is catching up with you.”<br />
<br />
His gait was still stiff, and his shoulders were hunched. “Hey Don. It’s not what you think, it’s my back. Had to hump a load of sheetrock by myself.” Not to mention, feeling like I was worked over with a crowbar, after that scene at Shelly’s.<br />
<br />
“What, that tightwad you work for too cheap to hire enough help?”<br />
<br />
“Naw, it’s my own fault. Long story. I’d tell you about it over a beer sometime.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe sometime.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe tonight.”<br />
<br />
“Sorry, no can do. I told you I’m kinda going with someone.”<br />
<br />
Damn she looks good today. Those soft brown shoulders. "Give me hope," he said.<br />
<br />
"I hope you put a quarter in the meter."<br />
<br />
“Shit, thanks for reminding me. Anyway, here’s that Eastwood disc back. Never did finish it, though.” He set the jacket on the counter. “So who is this lucky guy?”<br />
<br />
“You wouldn’t know him. Someone from that class I’m taking.”<br />
<br />
“Moving on up in the world…”<br />
<br />
She cut him off. “Dammit, Terry, cut the crap. You should be taking classes yourself. Do you honestly want to be unloading trucks the rest of your life? “<br />
<br />
“I dunno.” <br />
<br />
A spasm grabbed his back. He winced, and turned away from the counter and walked back into the stacks. He flashed on the image of the blue skinned man and the woman with almond shaped eyes. What would it be like, to do it with that sitar music? Just then, her cell phone rang. He eased closer to the counter, concealed behind the shelves, and overheard her say, “Yeah, I get off at nine. Great, I’ll meet you in front of the shop.” <br />
<br />
That's a relief. At least she didn't make it up just to blow me off. He pulled another jacket off the shelf and walked back to the counter. “You know, it’s not all that bad. The old man let me build a set of bookshelves for that big house over on Jackson Place, and they came out real nice. He even said so.” He slid the jacket over to her.<br />
<br />
“Dead Man Walking. Good choice for you, dude. Hey, isn’t that your girlfriend out there?”<br />
<br />
It was the meter maid. The bells slapped the door again as he vanished.<br />
<br />
When he got back to the office, the old man handed him a small envelope. It was addressed to him, care of the office. The handwriting was tiny, fashioned in rounded, upright strokes. Shelly’s name and address was on the flap.<br />
<br />
He was stunned. “Looks like you have an admirer,” said the old man. <br />
<br />
“Yeah, right,” he replied. Must be a bill for the massage. He took the envelope back into the shop, and tore it open. Inside was a card dated a few days earlier, it read:<br />
<br />
Dear Terry,<br />
<br />
I don’t know where you live, so I sent this to your office. <br />
<br />
I’m so sorry about how I behaved this evening. I hope your back is better. <br />
<br />
Maybe this is crazy, but I thought we could have dinner together some time. I know a great Indian restaurant, Annapurna's, not too weird, they even serve some chicken dishes. Please give me a call any time. And remember to stretch out every morning, and drink plenty of water.<br />
<br />
Namaste, Shelly<br />
<br />
What’s with this namaste business. Have to look it up sometime. Anyway, is she whack or what. Screaming at me one minute like I was raping her, and now this. Like I need another nut case on my hands, anyway. He shoved the card in his shirt pocket and went back to work. <br />
<br />
He was at his mom’s house, watching a Tigers game on TV in the living room. She had made him dinner, and had just come up from the basement with a basket of his laundry, clean and folded. <br />
<br />
“Terry, you said you’d take care of that toilet down there. I got tired of jiggling the handle, so I finally just shut the valve. But sometimes I need it…”<br />
<br />
“Ma, I’m sorry, I keep forgetting to pickup the part.” <br />
<br />
“Sweetheart, I’ll pay you…”<br />
<br />
“Ma, it’s not like that, I just keep forgetting, that’s all. I promise I’ll take care of it soon. Just quit nag…”<br />
<br />
“Terry, darling, please stop. I’ll just call a plumber.”<br />
<br />
“Ma-aa, for crissakes, I said I’ll take care of it.”<br />
<br />
She walked over to where he was sitting and picked up his beer can and gave it a wiggle. It was empty.<br />
<br />
“Want another one, darling?”<br />
<br />
Yeah, Ma.” <br />
<br />
“By the way, I found this note in your shirt.” She reached into her apron pocket and pulled it out. “From a ‘Shelly.’ Who’s this? I thought you and Cortney were getting back together.”<br />
<br />
“Aw Ma…”<br />
<br />
“Oh, Terry, Terry, Terry. You were crazy about that girl. But you were so young. Maybe your father was right about her—but even he liked her, too.”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, when he’d had a few.” The inning was over and a commercial had started up. He picked up the remote and flipped through some stations.<br />
<br />
“Oh Terry, sometimes I’m glad he’s not around anymore, to see you so sad. Anyway, who’s this Shelly? Is she nice?<br />
<br />
“I dunno, she’s just some girl I met.” <br />
<br />
“Well I hope it works out. Anyway, please bring Willow by sometime, I never get to see her. You have her on weekends, right?”<br />
<br />
“Every other, Ma, every other. Yeah, I’ll bring her over.” He flipped back to the game. <br />
<br />
“And remember that part for the toilet.”<br />
<br />
“All right, Ma, all right,” he said. She turned and walked toward the kitchen to get him his beer.<br />
<br />
<br />
CHAPTER FIVE: CRISIS<br />
<br />
“Shelly—hi, it’s Terry.”<br />
<br />
“Oh, hi Terry. How are you? Is your back better?”<br />
<br />
“I’m OK—sort of. Almost back to normal—but I can’t pick you up this evening. I had some construction adhesive on the seat of my truck—you know, in those big tubes—and I parked in the sun this afternoon. The cab got so hot that some of the tubes burst, and there’s this goo all over the seat.”<br />
<br />
“Oooohh, sorry about your truck. I’m working at the coop this afternoon--why don’t I pick you up after I get off, and I can drive us to the restaurant.”<br />
<br />
“Hey, thanks, that’s a great idea. You’re a real life saver.”<br />
<br />
“Well, I don’t know about all that. But I get off at four. So I'll pick you up at four thirty--we can get the early bird special--it's half price.”<br />
<br />
“ OK then, see you at four thirty. I promise I won’t be late this time.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-46829110957555344742009-12-02T15:06:00.008-05:002009-12-05T11:31:06.885-05:00something of value<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Calan%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><o:smarttagtype name="place" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype name="City" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype name="State" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p>( Note: This pulls together some previous sketches--which have been removed from this blog--and adds a conclusion. There is a bit more material that may get inserted at some point, but otherwise, this piece can stand alone.--aa)</o:p><b><o:p><br />
</o:p></b><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b> <o:p></o:p></b><br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>Something Of Value<o:p></o:p></b><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt;">I PULLED MY TRUCK into the driveway, and Pat’s Tornado swerved in behind me. Lurching out of his car, the bill of his hunter’s cap hit the doorframe, knocking it sideways across his head. He did not seem to notice. As he staggered toward the stoop, still singing ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone, I began to realize the magnitude of his condition. I was drunk, but Pat was at the edge of oblivion. Annamarie appeared in the doorway.<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">||<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">== ==<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">|| <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
AFTER TURNING WRENCHES for four years back east, and in Santa Fe for Boddy’s, and then the Kawasaki dealer, and some anything-that-rolls-in-the-door auto repair shop, I’d had it with the oil and grease, the brake dust and exhaust fumes, the bone deep slices in every knuckle—and most of all, the grimy stains that no soap, no solvent would wash out of my hands.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A classified ad sought carpenters in White Rock. I contacted old man Sandoval, the SnapOn dealer, and met him out at his house in Arroyo Seco. I carried in a carton with a couple of air wrenches, an air chisel, and some other tools I knew I wouldn’t be using again. I walked out of the house with a battered Skil Model 77, a wellworn leather tool belt, and some odd chisels and planes. No money changed hands, and each of us thought he got the better of the other.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">||<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">== ==<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">||<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">NEXT DAY, I put the tools in my truck and hauled myself across the <st1:place w:st="on">Rio</st1:place>, and up the highway that scales the rugged slopes of the Pajarito Plateau. The Sandias and the Sangre de Cristos panned in and out of view as I negotiated the switchbacks. Up on the flats, a trim young jogger loped along the road that ran to <st1:place w:st="on">Los Alamos</st1:place>. A fox, half hidden the brush, watched his progress. Beyond the fox, the terrain rose to the Jemez. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A little ways down the road, this tentative wilderness gave way to a convenience store. I stopped and bought a quart of grapefruit juice and a bag of barbecue chips. Another hundred yards, and suburbia spilled out to the east. This was my turnoff. At first, I missed the street named in the want ad, and wound down the lane all the way to the rim of the plateau. The land fell off more than two thousand feet to the <st1:place w:st="on">Rio</st1:place>. I heard a plaintive wailing, almost like a child. A thousand feet below me a string of geese were working their way south.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I probably took the longest possible route back along the coiling lanes to La Senda, and found the house. It was a timberframed structure, with slumpblock walls and great glass panels. Sitting on a rolling five acre lot, surrounded by stubby piñons, its form was ranging and aggressive--a prairie style house in the high desert. A carpenter was nailing up cedar shakes on a curved section of wall. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I pulled into the driveway. A lanky, weatherbeaten man was standing nearby with a clipboard in his hand and a roll of drawings under his arm. He wore tooled leather boots with pointed toes, and a straw hat with the brim rolled up on the sides, so the front also came to a point. I got out of the truck and asked him if he knew about the job offer. With his free hand, he took the cigarette out of his mouth. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You carpenter?” <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The right answer was no. The biggest thing I’d ever made using a hammer and saw was a plywood camper shell for Annamarie’s Datsun. But I was pretty good with motors and transmissions—how much harder could this be? <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I glanced over at the building. Even though it was chilly, the carpenter who was nailing up the shakes had taken off his shirt. I flashed back to when I was in school, and Linda was pregnant, and I got that summer job working at the library. It was the main branch, and my job was opening cartons of new books and gluing the envelope under the back cover. A new wing was being added to the library, and I would look out the window of the dingy storeroom and watch the guys tiptoeing across a run of open joists carrying sheets of plywood, out under the open sky.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m pretty good with wood,” I replied.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He peered into the truckbed. “Ah see ya use a worm drive,” he said, nodding at the Model 77. “Anything else is a piece a shit. Kin you start now? Ah’ll give ya four-fifty.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">||<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">== ==<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">||<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE, and we had knocked off early to drink a beer. We got our regular table at The Fat Man's, and Pat launched back into his life in western <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Massachusetts</st1:state></st1:place>, weaving his spell on me again, while outdrinking me two to one. After a few rounds, the other guys shoved off, but Pat and I stayed for another few pitchers. <br />
<br />
Pat Maloney was older than the rest of us. Having served a formal apprenticeship as a joiner, he took a paternal interest in our work, teaching us how to sharpen a chisel or plane iron, testing the edge by shaving the hair on his forearm. Using hand tools, he could layout and cut a mortise and tenon joint with machinelike precision, probably as fast as someone using a router and power saw. He mesmerized us with stories of living and working on a pheasant hunting resort, raising the birds, maintaining the incubators and coops, guiding the hunters. He described an idyllic existence. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
During that time, he met Rosa, a sophomore at <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Amherst</st1:place></st1:city>. When she got pregnant, she dropped out, and moved in with him for a while, in his gamekeeper’s apartment above the workshop. But she left him behind to have the baby, back with her family in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Santa Fe</st1:place></st1:city>. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Pat followed her out west to marry her, but soon grew uncomfortable in what to him was an alien environment. He could not persuade <st1:place w:st="on">Rosa</st1:place> to move back east, so he left her, and began a pattern of wandering back and forth across the country, in and out of the lives of his wife and daughter. Pat was a pendulum that swung between the people and places he loved, repelled from one pole by the unbearable burdens of marriage and fatherhood, and from the other by the desperate forces of loneliness and sentiment.<br />
<br />
Our mutual oscillations coincided in White Rock. Pat was already working on the project when I got hired, but it took a while to get to know him. For one thing, I was canned a day after I started. <br />
<br />
I was a disappointment to the man who assumed I was equal to the merits of my tools. That first day on the job, he assigned me to frame out for a big bathtub within the circular walls. While the shirtless carpenter pounded on the walls from the outside, I struggled to resolve the interplay of arc and rectangle. It was a task for a top notch, experienced mechanic, and by the end of the day I had maybe two illfitting boards nailed up.<br />
<br />
The next day, the foreman walked in and watched me struggle for a while.<br />
<br />
“Son, yer buildin a house, not a pie-anner,” he advised. By the end of the day, he’d let me go.<br />
<br />
“Ain’t gonna fuss with a check, son.” He pulled out his wallet and peeled off three twenties. “S’more than ya earned, but don’ worry bout it. Good luck.”<br />
<br />
A few despondent days later, I got a call from Orlando, one of the carpenters. “Where have you been, dude, we need you.” It turns out that the carpentry contractor had been fired, the day after they fired me. The owner of the house—Cal O’Ryan—a physicist at the lab—was taking over finishing the project. He had gotten the names of the carpenters from the subcontractor before he sent him packing, and apparently knew nothing of my limitations.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, it was back up the hill for me. Someone else had finished the bathtub frame, so I fell in helping the best I could, humping materials, rerouting extension cords, retrieving tools dropped from above. At some point, I was working with Pat, who was installing a wood cap on top of a parapet—a continuation of the curved wall that was my earlier downfall. <br />
<br />
Pat had divided the half circle into twelve segments, but he couldn’t figure out the angle of the joint where the segments met. He tried determining the angle by eye, and cut out the segments. When he set them in place, the last one would not fit.<br />
<br />
I started to explain to Pat how to calculate the cut by dividing angle of the arc by the number of segments, and he started getting annoyed. <br />
<br />
“Here, dammit,” he swore, and handed me his pencil. Then he began taking the tools out of his apron, handing them to me one by one, and when I could not hold anymore of them, and they started falling to the deck, he took off his hat and threw it down and started to walk away.<br />
<br />
“Pat, wait a minute, let me just lay one out for you.” It took me a while, because I needed Pythagoras to work out the length, and I couldn’t remember the square root algorithm. (but oh how clearly I remember Nancy Swope, who sat on my left in Mrs. Byers’ math class. She wore these button front blouses, and when she would lean forward, I could steal a glimpse of heaven between the puckers of the fabric. It was a wonder I passed the course.) <br />
<br />
Nevertheless, I worked it out close enough so that when Pat cut out a new set of caps, all he had to do was trim the ends that met the main wall of the house. It was cherry. Cal noticed, and gave Pat a compliment on the work that afternoon. From then on, Pat and I were tight.<br />
<br />
We worked together through the autumn, and under his tutelage I gained some skill. He had a tender side, too. Once—it was the day before Thanksgiving—I was nailing up blocking inside a closet, using a brand new twentytwo ounce Estwing. As I began the swing of the hammer, its claw caught for a moment on a stud behind me. I remember watching the hammer head, with its razor sharp waffle pattern sparkling, as it wobbled by on its way to my ring finger—which I had not yet learned to tuck behind my thumb when holding a nail. <br />
<br />
It seemed like the hammerhead just tagged the fingertip, but it tore a nice flap of skin loose. <br />
<br />
“Damn,” I cried, and dropped my hammer. Pat noticed, and went out to his car to get a bandaid. By the time he returned, it was red beneath the fingernail. The pain was excruciating. <br />
<br />
Once again, Pat went back to his car, returning with needle nose pliers and a tiny brad. He put the brad in the pliers and heated it with his lighter until the tip started to glow.<br />
<br />
“Gimme your hand,” he ordered. I gave it to him.<br />
<br />
“Now look away.” <br />
<br />
Then he poked the brad through my fingernail. Blood spurted from the little hole, but the pain immediately subsided.<br />
<br />
“All set,” he said. Now let’s get back to work.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">||<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">== ==<br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">|| <br />
</div></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I CALLED UP from the driveway, “Hey Annie, I brought Pat Maloney with me.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I see. Is he coming in, or is he just going to stand there singing?”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then Pat saw her in the doorway, hands on her hips. Immediately he fell silent and stiffened up. He straightened his hat out and hitched up his trousers. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Pat, come on in. This is Annamarie.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We clambered into the little trailer house. I gave Annamarie a peck on a stony cheek.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Pat greeted her. “Mrs. Wolfe, how do you do? ‘Sa pleasure to meecha.” Pat knew we weren’t married, but called her Mrs. Wolfe anyway. Annamarie grimaced but let it go. She asked him, “Pat, can I fix you a cup of coffee?” I was about to have a cup myself.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He cocked his head toward her and raised one eyebrow, and replied, “No, but I’ll take a beer if you have one.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I groaned audibly. “Pat, for crissakes...”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At those words, Pat’s head sank. The corners of his mouth pulled down, and the twinkle in his eyes vanished. “That’s right. Enough is enough.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We sat down, me on the couch, and Pat in a chair on the opposite side, near the door. The little trailer house was so narrow, our knees were almost touching. Annamarie brought in some coffee and sat down next to me, about as far away as the little couch would permit.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I started telling her about our plans to subcontract the carpentry work for the Gant house. Pat began to beam again. Some force filled his sagging body, and his arms and head became animated again. He rambled on about the plans for the house, how it would be even greater than O’Ryan’s. About our partnership, and the beginning of creating an enduring relationship. Through it all, he kept using the term, “something of value.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But there was something incongruous about it all. One minute, he seemed stupefied; the next, he was actually making sense. But I was in no condition to explore the issue. I felt even drunker than when I had arrived, and Pat’s remarks rolled in my head like the shifting baubles in a kaleidoscope.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then he talked about how proud his wife, Rosa, was of these prospects. He wanted to introduce me to her.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I want you to meet Marcella, too.” Marcella was his daughter. “Smart girl; she’s going to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Saint Johns</st1:place></st1:city>. Beautiful, too. I think you would like her.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Annamarie was sitting with her arms folded across her chest and legs crossed. Except for the slow flexing of her elevated foot, she could have been carved out of a block of stone. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I was in another world, imagining the lovely Marcella. Somewhere in the background, I remember Pat comparing his knockout of a daughter with Annamarie, my Annamarie, who took fierce pride in the severity of her looks; somewhere deep in my suppressed consciousness I knew I should be outraged. But instead, I just sat there, lapping it up. Annamarie sat in silence.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally I told him it was time to wind it down, and he got up and went out to his car. Annamarie was still on the couch, still crossarmed and crosslegged, but she had turned her head away, gazing out the south window at the desert beyond. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I started to say something, knowing there was nothing to say. Then I looked out front and noticed that Pat’s car had not moved. He had passed out behind the wheel.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I got up and went outside. Then I opened the drivers side door and shoved him over, and drove him back to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Santa Fe</st1:place></st1:city>. Pat rode slumped against the passenger side door, his right arm extended, and his head on his shoulder. The sun was setting, turning the snow on the Sangre De Cristos a salmon color. He lived all the way on the other side of town, somewhere way out <st1:place w:st="on">Agua Fria</st1:place>. Annamarie followed us, and drove me back. By this time, the sky was black, and snow on the mountains was luminous. I chattered lamely, pretending it was all in good fun, a few drinks, a crazy old guy, no? Maybe she even believed me, a little bit, anyway.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I DON”T KNOW how many years, after it was all over with her, it took me to realize what I’d lost, or how much pain I caused.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why couldn’t I have said to Pat, “Listen up, old man. Annamarie is my woman, and I’m her man. She is beautiful to me, and I don’t give a damn what you think.”<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was because I was not a man, not then. Annamarie, I am weeping.<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-54612496952124323022009-11-16T06:54:00.001-05:002009-11-20T11:25:22.707-05:00Sketch #5 Crackers<div class="post-footer"><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"><meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Calan%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><o:smarttagtype name="City" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype name="Street" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype name="address" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype name="place" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Crackers was a dog who never new a leash.<br />
<br />
I’ll get to his finer qualities, but first—I am not a dog person. And I’m really not a puppy person. I don’t like their smell, and I particularly don’t like discovering their turds in my bare feet.<br />
<br />
You may think it was Cracker’s misfortune, to come to be raised by me, to be barricaded at night into a corner of the bathroom, but I was the one who had to listen to him squeal.<br />
<br />
Man he could piss me off. Like that time I walked into the trailer house and smelled something. <br />
<br />
“What’s that smell?” I snarled.<br />
<br />
Mary Ann was sitting across the room reading a book. Crackers was by her feet, stretched out with his head on his front paws.<br />
<br />
“What smell?” she replied.<br />
<br />
“Like something died in here.”<br />
<br />
“I don’t smell anything.”<br />
<br />
Crackers lifted his head and sniffed the air.<br />
<br />
“Over here somewhere.”<br />
<br />
Mary Ann came over and she smelled it too. The dog came over and sniffed around our feet. We looked around, but didn’t see anything, so I started searching. Down the hall, into the nook, into the bathroom, the closet. Nothing. Into the bedroom. Nothing. Under the bed. Nothing. <br />
<br />
I tromped back down the hall, baffled. The smell seemed worse now.<br />
<br />
“Maybe something died under the trailer,” she suggested. So I grabbed a flashlight and went outside. Crackers followed.<br />
<br />
I searched under the trailer, but could not find anything obvious. But I still smelled something.<br />
<br />
Still baffled, I headed back to the door. There I saw it—the unidentifiable remains of some unfortunate critter, mooshed into the doormat by a vibram soled boot. The bootprint, which matched my own size thirteen, was pointed toward the door.<br />
<br />
I sat down on the edge of the stoop and lifted my ankle up onto my knee, and twisted my foot up so I could see the sole. More of the remains was embedded in the lugs, and I could see carpet fibers embedded in the glistening tissue. Crackers came over to sniff.<br />
<br />
“SHIT!” I hollered. “Goddam you!” I screamed, whipping off the boot. “Godfuckingdam you!” I bellowed, as the boot chased the dog across the driveway.<br />
<br />
But the boot could not catch up with the dog, so it gave up the chase and tumbled into the arroyo. Crackers just stood there by the fence, looking at me quizzically.<br />
<br />
Crackers, however, had a generous heart. He forgave me for throwing the boot, like he forgave me for penning him in the bathroom.<br />
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Crackers was really Mary Ann’s companion. He’d give me that low growl if I came on to her too strong. Still, we got along fine. Me, throwing a tennis ball, sidearm, just as hard as I could, skimming it down the dirt road, Crackers tearing after it, his paws sending up rooster tails of dust and gravel, until he reached full speed. He’d gallop back with the ball, nearly as fast, like Pete Rose, sprinting up the first base line on a walk, proud of his powerful legs.<br />
<br />
Then I’d fling the ball again, way into the brush. Crackers would search relentlessly, never returning without it, never not eager to go after it again. An hour would pass, just like that.<br />
<br />
He was a mutt we picked up at the pound. We got him after we were burglarized, back when we lived on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Galisteo Street</st1:address></st1:street>, in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Santa Fe</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
<br />
I knew who did it, too. It was an Anglo guy who used to hang around the neighborhood. Don’t ask me to remember his name. He noticed our bikes parked behind the wall that formed the miniature courtyard in from of the flat, and struck up a conversation with me. He was wearing a gun on his hip, like some fetish object. “It’s legal, you know, as long as it’s not concealed.” <br />
<br />
One evening he knocked on the door and I let him in. He made a feeble effort to make conversation, asking dumb questions about motorcycles. But he just sort of gazed around the room, not listening to the answers. <br />
<br />
The next evening we came home and I noticed that a block had been knocked loose from the wall out front. Strange. Inside, it took a moment to discover the guitar was missing. Damn! Just an old gut string no-name. But still. Ohmygod—where’s my tool chest? (I had brought it home recently, after leaving the cycle shop.) It contained a complete collection of Snap-on wrenches and sockets, large and small air wrenches, special tools for beemers, and some custom tools I had made or modified. And the Impeach Nixon bumper sticker on the front panel. It took a day or two to miss the Yashica 35 mm range finder my brother had given me.<br />
<br />
So we went to the pound selected a pup that looked like it might be a german shepherd. He got his name from a dysfunctional character in a John Waters movie. Just for good measure, I bought a gun. Then we moved out of town.<br />
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<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Crackers grew to be a formidable dog. He looked like a shepherd collie mix: shaggy coat, black, tan, and white, a husky trunk. But he had stubby legs like a Corgi. As odd as he looked, I saw many similar dogs running around the countryside.<br />
<br />
Regardless of his lineage, the short strong legs stood him in good stead. We’d go for jaunts in the high desert, and when we’d come to the edge of a steep barranca, I’d pick him up—all forty-five pounds of him—and fling him over the brink. Then I’d leap after him, half freefalling, half trotting down the slope, just touching the ground whenever it approached, a quick little double step, tipTAP, tipTAP, not knowing where I was headed, or where I would land, letting my feet decide all that. Somehow, we’d arrive at the bottom, together, always upright. <br />
<br />
I remember pausing at the rim of a broad, deep arroyo, watching some canyon jays on the opposite side. They were flying around erratically, calling out in crow-like squawks, but at a higher pitch. Just then, I remembered a bird call I had in my wallet. A girl from back east (the same one who sold me the windowpane) had given me a duck call, a total riff. I had stuffed it in my wallet and forgotten about it.<br />
<br />
I sat down on the rim and unwrapped the package. Crackers sat on his haunches beside me as I read the directions. Then I put it up to my mouth and blew. The duck call must have meant something to the jays, because one of them immediately flew over to scope things out. Then a few more flew over. They were calling like mad, and I was calling back, trying to imitate their pitch and intonations. More and more of them came from out of nowhere, and soon there were countless birds, swirling and darting around us. Crackers would follow the flight of one, and then another, wishing he had wings so he could join them. Soon the birds got tired of the game, and one by one, went back about their business. <br />
<br />
We slept out in the open that night, under the stars. Whenever I camped out, I was haunted by that scene from Easy Rider, where some thugs club Jack Nicholson to death. You could hike way back into the wilderness, imagining no one had every passed that way before, but no matter where you went, you’d look down and see a Coors can or a rifle shell. Before I went to sleep, I tied a thong around my wrist, with the other end tied around the revolver’s trigger guard. It was comforting to feel the warmth from the dog next to me.<br />
<br />
His stirring woke me in the middle of the night. The milky way sprung up out of the mountains beyond, and ranged over our bodies. In the distance, a pack of coyotes was singing. <br />
<br />
I reached over and grabbed the loose flesh behind his ear, and kneaded it slowly. He hunkered back down and closed his eyes.<br />
<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s been a while since I heard a coyote sing, but I still can hear a feral call in the distance from time to time. It used to be—with any pinch or a tug from my own leash—always one I would wriggle into voluntarily, eagerly—I would heed the call and chase after it, leaping off the edge with no clue, no care, of what the next step would be. But somehow, those journeys have taken me to a place where I am content, happy to listen to the voices without giving chase.<br />
</div><br />
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</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-78081679683094265332009-11-11T11:00:00.000-05:002009-11-11T11:00:36.157-05:00Sketch #4 Gene and PablitaGene, the son of Adolfo and Pablita Gallegos, lived in another trailer house, a little farther up the arroyo. <br />
<br />
Settlement in the high desert strung out along the flood plains of the streams and rivers that trickled and flowed out of the mountains. The original land grant colonists had built on the bluffs, above the irrigable, mosquito ridden flats. Their fields stretched down to the banks. A road was established, parallel to the river, linking the homes together. As time went on—and families grew—the holdings were divided into strips, perpendicular to the river. This configuration maintained access to the acequias. At some point, individual properties became so narrow that it was impractical to resubdivide them in the traditional way (and only the Anglo newcomers were crazy enough to settle on the flood plain), so the next generation inherited lots above the road—land that was dry, overgrazed, and deforested. <br />
<br />
Gene was of that generation that could no longer subsist on the land. Pablita had told me that, “We had no depression here. We had chickens, we had beans, we had milk.”<br />
<br />
Someone told me that Gene had been a cop once, but had gotten kicked off the force. When I knew him, he was painting cars and selling a little mota. Five bucks got you a 35mm film canister, fifteen a small baggy. <br />
<br />
To raise a little scratch, Gene also sold off his father’s tools. I bought an elegant twenty inch long jack plane, with a Bailey shoe and a Stanley blade works, and a perfect 12 point Disston hand saw—with a V for Victory emblem etched in the blade—and neither with a spec of rust, for maybe twenty five bucks. He asked me not to mention this to Adolfo. I treasured that saw until someone who knew its value borrowed it and never gave it back. A lesson in karma, I suppose. <br />
<br />
Painting cars out in the open was problematic. Even on a calm day, a lot of dust would settle on the wet paint. So Gene built himself a paint teepee. <br />
<br />
Of course, an inverted cone shape was not ideal. Gene elongated the teepee form into a sort of A-frame with rounded ends. The building plan and ridgeline bent somewhat, to accommodate an outcropping.<br />
<br />
The structure was fashioned from slender tree trunks, maybe six or eight inches in diameter at the base, and set about two feet apart, in opposing pairs, sloping to the center. Tar paper was draped over the framework, and a lathe of chicken wire set over the paper.<br />
Finally, Gene applied a few hasty layers of cement stucco over the whole affair. It was a feverish work of genius. Vincent Sculley could have written a paean to it, how its organic form resonated with the mountains in the distance; my straw bale and natural building friends would have been in awe.<br />
<br />
Gene’s paint shop took off. It became a local landmark and gathering place—even when there were no cars to paint, Gene’s buddies would visit, drinking beer and blowing weed all day long.<br />
<br />
One morning I looked out the window and the teepee was gone. In its place was a pile of shattered and scorched stucco, a great deal of which was mounded over the car that was ready for a final buff-out. <br />
<br />
I can’t recall how much time Gene spent, despondent, paralyzed. But soon after the debris was cleared, a flat bed loaded with adobe bricks showed up. A tidy rectangular slab, about 36’ by 24’, was laid out and poured. <br />
<br />
Then it was adobe time. Pablita managed the mortar pit. The mortar, or mezcla, was little more than the hardpan beneath your feet, soaked with water, and worked with a hoe. Pablita demonstrated the action. She told me that when she and Adolfo built their house, she led an ox around in a circle, to churn up the mud. The beast’s urine added strength to the mix. In the old days, the finish floor was of the same mix. After it dried, the ox was led in and slaughtered—and its blood mopped in to seal the floor.<br />
<br />
A simple roof went up. An Ashley stove went in. Once again, Gene was back in business. <br />
<br />
At some point during these events, a young redhaired woman showed up. She was slender, but her belly was round. Even though she was Anglo, she spoke excellent Spanish. Gene was in heaven. “I always wanted a redhead,” he shared with me.<br />
<br />
I wish I knew how the story went. Did Redhead have Gene remodel the shop into a snug little casita—and rent the trailer to another couple of Anglo misfits? <br />
<br />
Janet and I found the arroyo again in 2005. We asked some people we saw if they remembered the Gallegos. A woman knew a niece, and offered to see if she could find her, but we declined, content to leave the past a mystery.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-64492687836551148302009-11-10T16:14:00.005-05:002009-11-10T16:57:27.340-05:00Sketch #3 Adolfo<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Calan%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Calan%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_editdata.mso" rel="Edit-Time-Data"></link><o:smarttagtype name="place" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype name="City" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">TO A TWENTY FIVE YEAR OLD, Adolfo seemed ancient. Perhaps he was 70, perhaps more. He enjoyed making jokes at his own expense. “Llamo Gallegos, pero soy un poco <st1:city w:st="on">Indio</st1:city>,” he admitted, then added, “Todos somos un poco <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Indio</st1:city></st1:place>.” <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was lanky and looselimbed. His forehead was tall and narrow, and sloped down to a large brown nose, perched on which were heavy framed glasses with thick lenses. “Estoy un poco ciegos,” he apologized, when he didn’t recognize me. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Que es ‘ciegos,’ senor?” I asked.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Adolfo lifted his glasses and blinked. He staggered forward, groping at me. Then he replied, in perfect English, “It means I’m blind as a bat, my friend.” <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I got to know him early in the year, at ditch cleaning time. Land owners with irrigation rights had to provide manpower to clean the ancient hand dug acequias—probably dating to Spanish colonial times—or pay a fee to the ditch association for hiring laborers. The individual requirement was proportional to the acreage under irrigation. The work took place before the sluice gate was opened for the new growing season.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghoJCfYXnNl3-pYHhyaeoaqf8iMiNcnMshSvJsQ2UZbOFC7A4o1M8m9UkoOujFcNpdYH9qGfA_Tdb0G0_b-f7hAxkxV325Y9oLrA7gj55hXJYvHviiZXBM6ZR6GTqcfcjHGAiZx_zwOnM/s1600-h/acequia+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghoJCfYXnNl3-pYHhyaeoaqf8iMiNcnMshSvJsQ2UZbOFC7A4o1M8m9UkoOujFcNpdYH9qGfA_Tdb0G0_b-f7hAxkxV325Y9oLrA7gj55hXJYvHviiZXBM6ZR6GTqcfcjHGAiZx_zwOnM/s640/acequia+1.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>As a renter, I was not obligated to participate. But I still volunteered, and on the appointed morning, Adolfo and I—shovels in hand—arrived at the head of the ditch. There, we were logged in and assigned a number. We took our places at the edge of the ditch, along with three or four dozen other men—mostly younger even than I was. Adolfo was by far the eldest.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then, the majordomo jumped down into the ditch. He took two paces down its course, and thrusting his shovel into the ditchbed, he called out UNO! Without breaking stride, he continued—two more paces, chop, DOS!—and on, until he had called off a number for each man. When the last number was called, we all leapt into the ditch and shoveled furiously, dirt sailing, birds and critters skittering and flittering out of the willows and Russian olive along the bank.<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg305qi-GgwTUZXvzQ1YMj1hHNAbfxU-Jyje0nI04yVeMSmqUZffLLjklhVqXHm2iEGNQHYaDAKDVd19O0nT5DwNgr8VHAX4UfPyzcxLMAc4ghwbTjAcr8L4NV-gjgkJ58GKIPBKhkefaM/s1600-h/acequia+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg305qi-GgwTUZXvzQ1YMj1hHNAbfxU-Jyje0nI04yVeMSmqUZffLLjklhVqXHm2iEGNQHYaDAKDVd19O0nT5DwNgr8VHAX4UfPyzcxLMAc4ghwbTjAcr8L4NV-gjgkJ58GKIPBKhkefaM/s640/acequia+2.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>All of us, except for Adolfo. Instead of leaping, Old Adolfo pushed his shovel into the ditchbed, and gripping the end of the handle close to his chest, he gently swung himself over the edge. He landed like a cat. Then he began to dig in an easy, rhythmic motion, scraping and lobbing in one graceful arc. Somehow, he kept up with the rest—some, one quarter of his age.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As soon as we completed our six foot segments, majordomo marked off the next set. We advanced almost without pause. By the end of the day, my ruptured blisters were bleeding through my gloves. My lower back was screaming. <br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Adolfo was tired, too, but he looked like he could go another round or two. That’s a good thing, because it would take several more days to complete the work.<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But that was it for me.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-27404701455519054702009-11-09T08:19:00.000-05:002009-11-09T08:19:01.746-05:00Apropos: Anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Calan%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Calan%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_editdata.mso" rel="Edit-Time-Data"></link><o:smarttagtype name="City" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype name="place" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><style>
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</style><o:p></o:p> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">In August of 2001, while attending a convention in Montreal—I spent as much time as I could get away with, away from the meetings and seminars—wandering the streets and neighborhoods of the enthralling city.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the outskirts of Vieux Montreal, I passed by an entrance to what initially appeared to be a large office building—but on closer look—I saw daylight pouring into the space from above. Intrigued, I entered the space—originally a narrow street or alleyway between two older buildings, which had been roofed over with glass. This atrium ran the length of the block, with shops and cafes along the sides. Above were balconies and office windows. As I walked through the space, I noticed, way at the far end, an upright slab of concrete. It was crudely wrought, and marked with furtive graffiti. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I approached—and as is my habit—I overlooked an explanatory plaque—and walked around the slab in wonderment. On its far side, the graffiti was vivid and colorful. It was only on completing a circumnavigation of the monolith that it dawned on me—this was a remnant of the Berlin Wall. The plaque confirmed the assumption—the slab was a gift, from city to city.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The magnitude of my simple and innocent act—walking around, freely, casually, unconsciously, what had been an insurmountable barrier, for the better part of my life—began to sink in. Tears welled up in my eyes.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Janet took me back to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Montreal</st1:place></st1:city> last August, to celebrate my Six-Oh. I made sure to show her what I had discovered, eight years before.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Are there any conclusions to be drawn from this experience?<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">If nothing else, it points to the futility of using the same concrete barriers, cast in the identical profiles, to separate Israelis from Palestinians. Or for that matter, of any wall, based on ideology.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-31316952089033204872009-11-07T15:12:00.002-05:002009-11-07T15:16:00.985-05:00Sketch #2 George McNaughton<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Calan%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><o:smarttagtype name="City" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><o:smarttagtype name="place" namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags"></o:smarttagtype><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">It must have been George McNaughton who turned us on to the place. George lived in El Rancho, just down the road from the trailer house. He would have known about it, and now that I think about it—George—who spoke some Spanish—introduced us to the landlady, Pablita Gallegos. Now the image is distilling—George, telling Pablita how he knew me from working together in the Honda shop, George, describing Mary Ann as my wife, Pablita, gently correcting his pronunciation.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wish I knew where he is now. If there was any one person who helped me shake off my demons and mellow out a little, it was George. He was only a fair mechanic, but his world was larger than a 350cc engine. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was renting a shotgun house on a sliver of land—it couldn’t have been more than 25’ wide. You had to go through the house to get to the lot in the rear, where he kept his goats. I’d leap the neighbor’s fence and find him sitting on some straw in the pen, nursing a kid in his lap with a baby bottle. He loved their milk, and would bring some in a mason jar with him for lunch. I tasted it, and was shocked at its gaminess. He apologized, explaining that there was a billy goat in the adjoining field, and his odor was enough to rankle the milk. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">I borrowed his truck once, to pick up my own truck engine from the machine shop in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Santa Fe</st1:place></st1:city>. It was a ’55 GMC, and George was intensly proud of its big Pontiac 287 V-8. The rear fenders were rusted through, George warned me that the one on the driver’s side lofted outward at highway speed. “So stay over to the right, now. If you roll the window down, roll it all the way down, hard, so it doesn’t rattle.” Even then, it was getting hard to find replacement glass.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">He told me how the truck had cost him his last job as a butcher. “I’d have to fiddle with the carb every morning, to get it started, and my hands would get greasy. Of course, the fat from the beef would dissolve it, and by lunch time the grease would be gone. But I guess the boss couldn’t handle it.”<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">But George had an uncompromising sense of dignity. I recall him, tall and towheaded, blond hair sweeping over blue eyes. When we’d go out, he wore a dapper three piece suit of pale blue denin. His dream was to build a home on some property he owned with Cynthia, somewhere up there between the Chama and the <st1:place w:st="on">Rio</st1:place>—La Madera, maybe. In some high valley, miles beyond the power lines. <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was crazy about Cynthia, and would speak of her in terms that would make a gynecologist blush. But their stars were crossed, and she wound up marrying some guy from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Santa Fe</st1:place></st1:city>.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-54061314268303737442009-11-07T15:08:00.003-05:002009-11-10T17:11:18.848-05:00sketch #1 Home in El Rancho<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Calan%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5Calan%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_editdata.mso" rel="Edit-Time-Data"></link><style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">here it sat, the little trailer house, like a Coors can tossed out the window of a passing pickup.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">You approached it from the east. Its berth was scraped out of the side of a hill, as tall as the trailer itself, so you didn’t even see it until you were almost past. And if you were sailing down the road at that harmonic speed where you float across the washboard ruts, you’d miss it altogether.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Opposite was an arroyo that flowed from the barren barrancas and foothills to the south. Widening and flattening, it merged briefly with the road, then resumed its final couurse, between adobe houses shaded by lombardy poplars, between their fields and orchards, and at last, into the weaving, tamarisk choked mud flats and trickles of the Nambe.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCa90xWi1mISy0GhXlCR2eMLoYkt1alkCF6rLI_Ddwltb_Pn34d83e0TsfBtN847nrVtoAiFnrIYfc1V1Clf7G_3BGuMm3nnTV6Iz6ty4J0RLbx9rZl78P8CQoCiuLHkuLWv9m0HUDzx4/s1600-h/scan0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCa90xWi1mISy0GhXlCR2eMLoYkt1alkCF6rLI_Ddwltb_Pn34d83e0TsfBtN847nrVtoAiFnrIYfc1V1Clf7G_3BGuMm3nnTV6Iz6ty4J0RLbx9rZl78P8CQoCiuLHkuLWv9m0HUDzx4/s640/scan0002.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">a city boy no more...</span><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">the arroyo is in the background <br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">If you didn’t fly past—if you stopped and pulled in beside the arroyo—you could mount the stoop—a pallet with a scrap of carpet, set on cinder blocks—and enter the trailer house through its sun blasted door.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was only on the other side of the door that the little house revealed its modest charms. Its walls were paneled with maple or birch, the rising and falling patterns of the bookmatched grain resonating with the rugged terrain beyond. Windows wrapped the south end, scanning the Sangre de Cristos to the east, the Jemez to the west, and the empty lands between. A plaque above the centermost window denoted the pride the Great Lakes Mobile Home company took in its manufacture.<br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9pt;">IMAGE FROM THE ATLAS MOBILE HOME MUSEUM <a href="http://www.allmanufacturedhomes.com/">http://www.allmanufacturedhomes.com/</a> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">At the opposite end of the space was a perfunctory kitchen. Beyond, a miniature bathroom, a nook large enough for a child’s bed—and finally—a bedroom with enough room to walk around one side of a double bed.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Somewhere there was a closet capable of stowing a partially dissembled motorcycle. There must have been a bench in the nook, because I recall overhauling the engine block of my ’61 F-100, inside, where it was clean and warm.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe not so warm. Waking up on a winter morning, with the temperature at 5 below zero, there would be a halo of frost on the wall around your head. There was a propane furnace next to the kitchen, but even set at full blast, it seemed to make no difference in the bedroom.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or warmer than warm. In the summer, with the sun pouring in through the bay windows, you knew how a dog felt, locked in a car with the windows rolled up. Haling from the muggy east, I was not familiar with swamp coolers, and it took me half the summer to understand the basic principles. By the time I figured it out—all it needed was to trim the rotten end of the water supply tube, and snug it down with a new hose clamp—the worst of summer had past.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-29736882848157441222009-11-07T14:57:00.004-05:002010-03-03T13:18:59.028-05:00New Mexico SketchesIn a recent FaceBook chat, author-architect Carol Venolia posted about living in a 60 square foot travel trailer.<br />
see:<br />
http://www.naturalhomemagazine.com/multimedia/image-gallery.aspx?id=9918 <br />
<br />
That got some engrams knocked loose, and I began to reminisce about a small space I inhabited once. The result has been a bittersweet process. Searching for records of the past--and finding photos and letters from old friends and lovers--too many of them gone; many more, somewhere beyond the reach of a google search.<br />
<br />
The goal is to build on the following sketches, combining and amplifying them, to come up with a New Mexican <i>Moveable Feast</i>. It's a terrifying prospect, because there were events where I caused great and needless pain to people. But you have to begin somewhere...<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVAGAM_DXQTvdO7XOgz5mZCKkSKU5q_LUkSDhdJFfRjfPsHS4yGxOyLaDt1Yu6PpW_W9JGZkGkDRJFdlKHL1rTgIgP6Wyto1uSfq34cr-hZJQjUrgFYIuZOzKsrGq-WxGcRvEbCbAsic/s1600-h/new+mex+road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVAGAM_DXQTvdO7XOgz5mZCKkSKU5q_LUkSDhdJFfRjfPsHS4yGxOyLaDt1Yu6PpW_W9JGZkGkDRJFdlKHL1rTgIgP6Wyto1uSfq34cr-hZJQjUrgFYIuZOzKsrGq-WxGcRvEbCbAsic/s640/new+mex+road.jpg" width="640" /></a></div> photo by Lynne Motley / 1985Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445093645093860543.post-21087244248111936662009-10-22T13:04:00.002-04:002009-11-05T09:50:35.347-05:00Last Trip<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuce9rcWiLsMMhPoI6VopK5oHsWlDKabBsX-E4QfRe-AqQEgeTMnEEGbKZckiDhdma6XOSK1Ag4rYaOmzXSg1-JYYIzNMCrRQCH0SnDrBEOj635BAnD5VSq3yUU_tcy9ELHeS_Rly8Bg/s1600-h/MAD+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBuce9rcWiLsMMhPoI6VopK5oHsWlDKabBsX-E4QfRe-AqQEgeTMnEEGbKZckiDhdma6XOSK1Ag4rYaOmzXSg1-JYYIzNMCrRQCH0SnDrBEOj635BAnD5VSq3yUU_tcy9ELHeS_Rly8Bg/s640/MAD+001.jpg" /></a><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">IT WAS THE BIG BROWN NOSE and demonic, toothy grin that I recall most vividly. The eyes were concealed behind leatherbound goggles, and the entire assemblage capped by a half shell helmet. He was easing up on my left on a BSA twin, a Lightning, I would guess.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We were already rolling along at a pretty good clip, somewhere west of Glorieta. The acid was starting to wear off, but I was still high. I glanced over at him, and nodding a greeting, goosed the throttle.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Coming from the east coast, the landscape still seemed bleak. The high desert is reluctant to share its sparse beauty with newcomers. Mary Ann was helping that process along with this ride.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">She had gone out there a year or so earlier, solo, on a sweet little CB350-4. Rented a flat on <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Galisteo Street</st1:address></st1:street>, just below the Paseo. Got a job at the Harley shop. I stopped off to visit, on my way to Alaska-so I told myself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Quickly, things got too comfortable. Within a day or two of arriving—broke—I got a job at Boddy’s Honda, turning wrenches. Richard, the shop foreman, was skeptical of my ability—maybe because when he asked my name, I told him my old friends called me Gonzo. So, first morning on the job, Richard gave me a new CB750.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“The transmission is bad. Can you overhaul it?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">No big deal. In Honda school, you had to tear down a transmission and reassemble it, without the manual. But it’s really not hard, once you learn the system. All Honda trannies—large and small—share the same configuration, which is logical and intuitive.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Sure,” I replied.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“OK. Let me know if you need a hand.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">All I had to work with was the set of hand tools I carried in my saddlebags, but by lunchtime I had yanked the engine, split the cases, and inspected the transmission. However, there was nothing wrong with it—the trannie was in perfect shape: shifters, dogs, gears, shafts—all sleek and gleaming. So I poked around, and found the problem: the shift linkage was fouled. A tweak with some channel locks and it was back in the groove--there had been no need to pull the engine. By late afternoon, I had the engine back in the frame, and was hooking back up the last of the cables when Rich walked by my bay.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Need a hand getting the engine out?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Nope. It’s back in. I’m going for a test ride in a few minutes.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“What about the transmission?”</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“It’s fine. The clevis from the shift lever was bent. I straightened it. Sorry I didn’t find it until I had it all torn down.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“No kidding—you had that engine apart and back together in one day—the flat rate manual gives it 24 hours! Who helped you lift the engine out?”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Nobody.” I demonstrated how you sit astride the rear seat, lay forward with your chest on the gas tank, and ease the engine up onto one of the frame tubes. You dismount, balancing the engine with one hand, then squat beside the bike, and roll the engine onto your haunches. Then you hump it onto the bench.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Well, if you want to go by Gonzo, you’re Gonzo, alright. If you want to call yourself Jesus, you’re Jesus.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">It’s no big deal, really. I worked with some serious flat raters in big shops back east, guys who were faster than me.</span><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">***</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">That weekend, Mary Ann wanted to show me one of her favorite spots. We loaded the bikes with a small tent, sleeping bags, and some food and water, and set out for the Pecos Wilderness.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">In my pocket, I had a couple of squares of windowpane, powerful stuff. I had tried a dose, back in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Takoma Park</st1:place></st1:city>, just before I left. I went for a walk along the creek, and the acid came on with the rush of a jet engine. Nearing the road, the sound of the passing cars took form, growing as the car approached, and dissolving from sight as the sound receded. I walked up a hill, along a little street I never new existed. Some old bungalows backed up to the park. As I walked beside them, one of the bungalows, with a low slung, wide eaved hip roof, became a merry, portly woman, who hitched up her long skirts and danced a jig for me. I was eager to share this stuff with Mary Ann.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">We must have camped above the tree line, because I remember taking off my boots and all my clothes, and running through a meadow, and down a hill. The sun at that elevation was dazzling, and as the acid came on, clouds, mountaintops and trees took on new forms, merged, and recombined. I felt scree and thistles cutting my feet, but did not perceive it as pain. It was like I was shaking off the demons of the past.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">But Mary Ann held back. Maybe she was worried that I would leap off some crag and try to fly away, or some local might see us and freak out and shoot us, so I chilled out. Although she was always more adventurous than me, she was a lot more circumspect. Plus she knew I had no common sense.</span><br />
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</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">***</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I started pulling ahead of Brown Nose, and he gunned his machine in response. We were heading up a long incline, and my mildly tweaked R-60/2 was pulling him all the way. But after we crested the hill, the BSA overtook me. I had to watch it anyway, because the beemer got a little wobbly over 95.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And so it went, I’d pace him up the hills, and he’d gain it all back going down. Soon, I could no longer see Mary Ann’s 350 in my mirrors. Brown Nose was in the lead when he peeled off onto the two lane spur into <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Santa Fe</st1:place></st1:city>, and I had to yield to a couple of cars. Trying to catch up, I roared up the shoulder, slinging gravel and passing traffic like crazy until a bridge abutment blocked my path. Never caught back up. It was over.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I killed the engine and waited for what seemed an hour for Mary Ann to catch up. When she did, she wasn’t so much angry as disgusted.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I suppose it was a good thing, though, because then and there I decided that I had experienced all I needed of the psychedelic state, at least for the time. In the thirtyfive years since that trip to <st1:place st="on">Pecos</st1:place>, I’ve never dropped another hit. Even tapered off of <i>mota</i>, and finally quit that, too.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">But I reserve the right to try it again some time. Like if I were diagnosed with terminal cancer, maybe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Or if Brown Nose blasted out of the hills again, to give me another chance. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2