As of yet Untitled
A single life
At nine years old Ty wanted to be a ballerina
At eleven years old she wanted to be a teacher.
At thirteen years a doctor.
At fifteen years a veterinarian.
At seventeen a veterinarian.
At nineteen a veterinarian.
At twenty-one, alive.
At twenty-three, dead.
At twenty-five she didn’t know what she wanted anymore.
At twenty-seven she just wanted to stay aloft.
At twenty-nine she wanted to go back to school.
She was thirty years old and disappointed. The tea was too sweet. Her mother, now sixty-five, had this unexplainable habit of not only adding sugar directly into the tea kettle before she boiled the water, but adding too much sugar directly into the tea kettle before she boiled the water.
Three days prior Ty’s fiancé, Brian, had been killed. To say it had been a blur would be a poor oversimplification. Ty was still trying to put it all together. All her memories had been created by images on TV or voices over the radio. A montage Eisenstein would be proud of was the only way she could picture the event. A jewelry store robbery. Five bullets fired and her fiancé lay dead behind the counter. Forever, she thought, the only way she’d remember would be through an image a TV screen.
There were no cruel ironies for Brian so often found in murders like these. His colleagues were another story. One of his coworkers had just quit and was about to walk out the door when the thief, nay murderer, walked in. Said coworker was bullet number one. The owner sat, depressed, in the back room preparing a grand gesture of suicide when the second bullet hit him in the shoulder. When it was all over the owner scraped his plans realizing just how much he truly enjoyed living. Brian was completely content working behind the counter when he was struck down with bullet’s three and five. The fourth shot didn’t matter.
Ty hadn’t yet gone back to school. After the wedding was the assumed time to resume her education. Now there was life-insurance money to consider. Enough, in fact, to make her feel like she didn't anymore schooling. But not enough for her to live comfortably ever-after.
The first day Ty’s mother showed up. The second day they want back to the house Ty grew up in. The third day Ty realized going back home was a mistake. The funeral wasn’t for another three days time. Brian's family was spread all over the country and they needed the time to pull together. Those who said they couldn’t make it to the wedding now made time to go to the funeral.
Whenever anyone came over Ty suddenly felt like she was stuck in the film His Girl Friday and everyone was either Cary Grant or Rosalind Russell and spoke too fast for her to keep up.
The only thing worse than people talking were moments like these. Silence with her mother. And the only thing worse than silence with her mother was silence alone.
At fourteen years old Ty wondered if she’d be one of those people in the background who died. She heard stories from her parents and aunts and uncles and other adults about friends from their youth who past away in high-school or college. Everyone seemed to know someone who died young. Ty would look around at her friends and wonder which one seemed most likely to turn into the the dead one. Drug overdose, car crash, cancer, or something equally hideous so she could tell her kids someday “and that’s why they shouldn’t...” As she aged the more everyone stayed alive the more she worried she was going to turn into a cautionary or just sad story for her friends progeny. Now at thirty she wondered if everything would have worked out better if she was the one who died young. As it stood, Mary-Sue Miller beat her to it. At seventeen Mary-Sue was rolling on ecstasy, before people really knew what it was, and nearly died due to over hydration. Luckily, in a addition to water she was drinking vodka and then tried driving home. She never made it.
Ty became the woman not even able to be a proper widow. The story would probably be worse had it happened a week or so after the marriage; she wouldn’t know whether to return the gifts or not. At least this way she didn’t have to worry about what to do.
Ty’s mother stood up. She patted Ty on the back and then walked out of the room. It was that moment, two-fifteen PM, the coffee maker exploded.
The coffee maker exploded for no particular reason. Shards of glass and bits of plastic and metal flew through the air. The explosion was so strong the debris imbedded itself in the wall and anything else in it’s path, including Ty, who immediately passed out spilling her cold, over sweetened tea on the ground.
Her life flashed before her eyes.
At ten she was punished for taking her shirt off while playing basketball with her friends. She didn’t understand why everyone made such a big deal about it.
At twelve she was punished for taking off her shirt with Tommy Kinsey in the room and the door propped shut with a chair.
At fourteen she decided she was a lesbian and swore off boys for good.
At sixteen she lost her virginity. She didn’t understand why everyone made such a big deal about it.
At eighteen she still didn’t see what the big deal was.
At twenty, after being with Bill Keret she found out why everyone made such a big deal about it.
At twenty-two she met Brian.
At twenty-four she was engaged to Louis because he asked and she didn’t know what else to say.
At twenty-six she was convinced to leave Louis at the alter and went out with Brian on what became their first date.
At twenty-eight Brian proposed and she said yes for the same reason she agreed to marry Louis.
At thirty she had forgotten what the big deal was in the first place.
When she woke up in the hospital four hours later she felt her life was less of something she had done and more like something that had been done to her.
The doctor told her she had a mild concussion and many many cuts and bruises. She nodded numbly and was sent home. A spokes person for the coffee maker manufacturers claimed that the coils overheated causing an electrical malfunction, thus the explosion. A recall was issued. Ty didn’t think that the coffee maker was left on or even plugged in, but kept that thought to herself. Medical bills were taken care of and none of the cuts or bruises would leave permanent marks.
Ty was expected to give a eulogy. She wasn’t quite sure what she should say. She was saddened by Brian's death but apparently not debilitatingly so. She felt more as if her favorite pet had died. Of course she was sad, and couldn’t just go out and buy a new one. Not right away, but in a week or so, after the funeral. She didn’t think Brian's family would be too happy to hear him likened to a cat or gold fish.
Her left hand was pretty much useless due to all the bandages and the pain that coursed right underneath. She was forced to use her weaker hand to try and ink out her final thoughts of the life she shared with her second fiancé. He was a gentle lover and cared for her deeply. He would lose himself in the small things and never had any big plans. Working in the jewelry store for the rest of his life suited him just fine. He was small time and loved it. He was a man who knew his place in the world and cherished his sense of belonging. To him everything always made sense. The more she thought about it the more she started to resent him for his calm, his peace with himself. By the end, her attempt to write turned into an exercise in futility. Paper crumpled and pen discarded she decided that she’d have an easier time of it tomorrow. She walked from her desk, a desk she had spent many hours writing various papers for countless teachers and professors, to her bed; the bed she lost her virginity on- and fell asleep.
She woke up early the next morning and crossed another day off her calendar. Only two more until the big day. Breakfast was soggy eggs and stale toast with salty margarine.
Ty showered and got dressed. Her mother left a note on her desk informing Ty that she’d be gone for the rest of the day and if Ty needed anything she could be reached on her cell phone. Ty tried to remember when her mother became so technologically advanced; when she became computer savvy and knew the difference between digital and analog mobile phones.
The sun shone as the sun is prone to do and Ty, lacking any other course of action, sat outside and basked in the light. Two books lay at her feet, neither being palatable for the moment. Ty sat, eyes open but looking nowhere in particular, on the back porch waiting for the day to end. Her left arm aching quite painful reminded her of the fact she couldn't make any coffee, and caffeine had become of late her only crutch. Maybe, she thought, her mother would bring home a new coffee maker.
Her mother did not, in fact, bring home any sort of coffee maker, fearing Ty’s response to a new one in the kitchen.
At one and a half years old Ty spoke her first word.
At three years old Ty wouldn’t shut up.
At six years old she refused to speak to her father for three months and four days.
At ten she gave her first speech in front of a crowd of her peers.
At fourteen she won her first debate.
At seventeen she had an opinion about everything and would share with anyone who would listen.
At twenty-three she started writing down all her ideas hoping one day to turn them into a book.
At twenty-eight she felt like she was running out of things to say.
At thirty she was sure of it.
With only one more day she started packing up her clothes, ready to make the trip three states away to attend the funeral of her intended. She chose only the simplest of clothes. Nothing fancy save a long black dress purchased for this very occasion. Not specifically her fiancee's death, rather funerals in general. She realized that afterwards she would never be able to wear this dress again, nor would she be able to get rid of it. This vestment of mourning would be something she’d be stuck with forever. It was almost funny to think about, but after everything was over, and all the food had been eaten, and the letter’s thrown away, years from now, this dress would be the only thing reminding her of Brian and their relationship.
As she packed she found the outfit she had worn to her father’s funeral. Eerily similar to the one she was prepared to wear now. Clothes for mourning, apparently, never go out of style.
From her room, Ty could hear the tea kettle whistling downstairs. Two minute later there was a knock on the door, and a hot cup of instant soup changed hands. Ty sat, after her mother’s departure, silently thanking that it was not her mother’s tea she held in her hands. The soup was chicken, and the secret ingredient was salt, possibly even MSG, depending on what brand of instant broth her mother now bought.
As the evening rolled around Ty grew more and more restless. She didn’t know what it was. Part anxiety to meet with Brian's family under present circumstances not withstanding, she thought the restlessness might be something else. She fell asleep trying, to no avail, to figure out what it could be.
She awoke the next morning, feeling rested, but by no means refreshed. Her arm still ached and her mind still wandered.
Packing the car was no problem. Though she only had one arm, she only had one bag. Her mother also loaded a single bag into the trunk of the car. Some snacks were left in the front, just to munch on.
Doors were locked, dryer lint checked, and lights left purposefully on to dissuade any burglars that might be prowling this Northern New England suburb. Ty sat in the passenger seat; her mother started the car and they lurched forward towards inevitable.
Ty needed a cup of coffee. The refreshing nencter of a dark roast eluded her since the curious incident of the exploding coffee maker at two-fifteen. She suddenly realized what had been bothering her the night before: caffine withdrawal.
The ever stretching highway loomed ahead. The road pushed on at a steady sixty-seven miles per hour, cruise control. Her mother cool eyed and calm lipped, made no intentions to start a dialogue. The silence was permiated only by the sound of rubber rolling over asphalt and the wind whiping by the car. No one touched the snacks.
God, did she need a cup of coffee. Tea gave her the jitters, especially tea brewed by her mother. Her first cup of coffee occured at her first date with Brian. Odd, she thought, that out of their relationship, the only desire that remained was one for caffine. The eulogy still unwritten, Ty tapped her legal notepad with her pencil and pretended to write. She wrote the sentace: “the car is driving forward yet I am going nowhere” fifty times before placing the pad face down on the floor.
With one and a half states behind, one and half to go they spotted an outlet mall that was just too good to pass up. Her mother, excited, hurried forward to check out the fabulous prices. Ty trudged behind, hoping that perhaps there was a barrista, from whom she could purchase a cup of coffee, hidden somehwere within.
At seven years old Ty purchased her first doll with her own money.
At twelve she bought her first school lunch from the eerily beautiful lunch lady Maxine.
At fifteen she bought her first pack of birth control pills.
At eighteen she bought her first computer (An Apple of some sort, though if asked now, she couldn’t tell you what kind).
At twenty-three she purchased her first car, a used car but new to her.
At twenty five she signed her first lease for an apartment.
At twenty-seven she purchased life insurance for the first time.
At thirty, in a small outlet store in New England, traveling with her mother to her fiancee's funeral, Ty purchased her very first coffee maker.
One problem at a time, she told herself.
A lifetime in a couple of seconds
In an ideal world there would be a bird sitting on my shoulder chirping a sweet melody through my ears. In an ideal world the Moon would be singing in the clear night sky, the stars echoing back the harmony. In an ideal world the sound of children playing would be reverberating in the streets. In an ideal world I wouldn’t be dead.
Not that I am dead, not yet anyway, give me another ten seconds. It’s amazing how long ten seconds really are. In ten seconds anything can happen.
The sky is dark with rain and children cry in the distance (or so I think, but it might just be my own wailing). In ten seconds the man with the gun is going to pull the trigger letting the hammer crash down forcing a bullet out of the barrel into my forehead. The bullet will rattle around in my skull and turn my brains into a useless gelatinous gray mass. In ten seconds. Because five seconds ago that is exactly what happened to Tyler.
Ten seconds is a ludicrous amount of time to wait.
A minute ago Tyler and I were trying to get back to the dorms as quickly as we could to get out of the rain. The T had stopped running hours earlier and we didn’t have enough money for a cab ride. The rain was cold. Not the type of cold that chills you on the outside so you have to layer up. The cold that seeps through clothing and skin and muscle and anchors on to your bone. The type that no matter what you wear it isn’t enough.
The hammer is now cocked, maybe five seconds left. Five seconds is a life time. Five seconds is a flash.
We were running back from John’s apartment trying to stir up our blood so we wouldn’t walk in to the dorm completely drunk. The cold, we thought, would help to kill our buzz. The gun aimed at my head works much better than the cold ever could. Time is slowly ticking away. My hands still in the air, my mouth open with shock at having seen Tyler fall to the ground dead.
It’s not like in the movies, not that I ever thought it would be. Not that I ever actually thought about it. In the movies a single bullet in the forehead is clean, very little blood. Or the head explodes in various shades of red in many degrees of thickness. In real life however, it wasn’t so much like that. There was a hole in his head, not a perfect one, almost like his head was caving in on itself. His heart just due to habit and lack of anything better to do, kept pumping blood. The blood first came out in spurts with each pump of the heart, then slowly tittered off to a trickle, all in thirteen seconds. Two more to live.
Two seconds is an infinity.
His hand tenses and I cringe and jerk to the side. I hear the sound of a bullet fleeing out of the barrel in a mad search to know the inner workings of my mind intimately. To put it bluntly, to fuck my skull. But in it’s mad lustful dash it lost sight and I hear it scream in fury past my ear and orgasm onto the brick wall instead. Now how much more time?
“Wait.” I say quickly before the hammer is cocked once again. I don’t know anything about guns. I can’t tell the make or the model, all I know is that it is a revolver, it is metallic blue and holds five bullets, now only three were left. The gun re-aimed,
He stops, but only for a second. In that second I remember thinking it would be great to duck down this alley with Tyler and take the shortcut home. He thinks it’s a little sketchy, he tells me, but I assure him, “Who would be crazy enough to be out in this weather now aside from us?”
"Please.” I say as I pull out my wallet and hold it out to him. I don’t think bribery will work, but I figure it’s worth shot. My socks grow soggier and I’m amazed I haven’t lost control of my bladder. I remain as calm as one can with a gun to his head. In the past while thinking of such things (which we all do occasionally) I never once figured I would be so calm. Especially standing next to the limp dead body of a friend.
“I can take your money when you’re dead.” His voice is calm and reassuring. Deep and commanding, hypnotizing if you will. And then he cocks the hammer. I wish I could see his eyes. I wish I could make out his face, but the shadows and the rain, and the fact that my attention is drawn to the barrel of the revolver distracts me. And he smiles, at least I think he smiles, I can’t be sure.
“Can’t you give me a break.” I whimper. “Don’t kill me. Please.” I plead, now crying.
I shudder as a bullet passes by on my left in an explosion of sexual ecstasy. I fall back and to the right until another bullet is released to my right knocking me to the left. I try and stagger forward, deafened by the shock wave. I inhale quickly and get back up marveling at the fact that neither achieved penetration. He isn’t a bad shot, just demented.
I wonder why no one in the area has called the police. I wonder if they had called the police why weren’t the police here yet. I wonder if I’m wearing a clean pair of underwear. I wonder if I told my parents that I love them. I wonder what it’s like to fall in love. I wonder what happens when one dies. I wonder if the the Red Socks won earlier today. I wonder why I always used get a hard on when ever I saw Minnie Mouse on TV. I wonder if today is a good day to die. I wonder if I am ready to die. I wonder how long a second truly is.
And from my mouth, like the rain from the heavens, the words pour.
“My name is Ted Knox. I’m twenty-one years old. I’m a college student studying to be a newspaper reporter. My birthday is June twenty-third. I was born in the year nineteen eighty-three. I have two younger brothers and an older sister. Their names are Jack, Sam, and Natalie respectively. My mother is a nurse and her name is Luanne Knox. My father is a patent attorney and his name is George Knox. My favorite color is sky blue, and my favorite movie is The Princess Bride. I’m a junior and have three more semesters until I graduate. I have a drivers license. On my license it states I’m five feet six inches tall, that I have brown hair, blue eyes, and weigh one hundred and thirty seven pounds. The license is wrong, I don’t really have blue eyes, they’re green. I’m a real person, I have a real life, and I don’t want to die.” And now I wait for the end. I am still amazed that I can think straight and am relatively calm. I would have never guessed in a million years that I would be so good in such a bad situation.
One bullet remains. Who knows how many seconds?
For the first time I don’t cringe. I lower my arms and stare past the barrel, which is aimed at my forehead. I still cannot see the face of the enemy but I look to where I assume his eyes are. Rain drops cascade off my forehead into my green eyes and I blink to get them away. My glasses fell to the pavement with my wallet and now I can’t quite focus.
The gun stares right back.
And three eternity's pass before I have a chance to blink.
I can’t tell you how long we just stand, waiting. I can’t tell you what he waits for. I wait for the end. Life or death, either way I wait for the end of the confrontation. Tyler is done waiting. The blood stopped it’s trickle one million years ago as far as I’m concerned.
And I blink again.
I think I hear sirens, I hope I hear sirens, I fear I hear sirens. What ever it is I hear, he hears it too. The gun wavers, for only a half second. In a movie or in a novel this would be the point where I jump forward and grab the revolver from his hand. This is the point where I would gather my courage and save the day. This would be it.
Unfortunately this isn’t a movie. Fortunately, however, not everything in real life has a depressing ending.
“Drop your gun and put your hands above your head.” Some one did call the police, thank god. I breathe a sigh of relief hoping that he still decides not to excite the trigger. If nothing matters the police won’t change that.
“So...” I say, “now what?” And for the first time I see his face. And it scares me. Not because it is the face of a madman, or a demon, but rather due to it’s lack of character. There was absolutely nothing about him that was unique, aside from the obvious that he was standing with a revolver in the middle of a rainstorm a little past three in the morning. He was clean shaven, short blond hair, dyed, about thirty years old and he was smiling. A clean straight smile produced after years of visits to the orthodontist.
“This.” He says as confident and as mesmerizing as before. He turns towards the officers and opens fire. A single bullet, in a ecstatic frenzy, is released from the revolver. Multiple bullets return with equal if not a more passionate exuberance towards the assailant. Blood mixed with rain water mixed with sweat mixed with garbage litters the pavement.
In seconds. Lights turn on in the surrounding apartments. The sound of children crying grows louder (again, maybe it’s just me). In seconds.
“Turn around and put your hands on your head.” The police yell at me. At least I assume it’s me they are yelling at for the other two people on this side of the alley are dead. I follow directions wondering how am I going to explain this and could I get a pair of clean underwear at the police station.
And after a lifetime, I blink.
I have no idea where I'm going with this
INT. LOST CAVES OF SUMARIA - NIGHT
A huge maze of intertwining caves twisting into near infinity.
LAUREN (RUFUS) PILLAR [late 20’s] dives forward as an EXPLOSION follows him through a tunnel. The flames fan above his head and dissipates. He stands up and brushes himself off. Dressed ala Indiana Jones he looks around.
Doc? Where are you?
Out from the once explosive tunnel DOC [late 50’s] crawls. He’s injured. Blood streaming down his face, his arms and legs bent out of shape. Every movement is extreme agony.
Rufus runs right over to Doc.
Oh my god. Doc, are you OK?
I don’t know how much time I have left.
Don’t say that.
Rufus reaches over and grabs Doc by the arms.
Doc hollers in pain. His arms are broken.
Rufus reaches over and tries pulling Doc by his chest.
Doc hollers in pain. His ribs are broken.
Rufus tries again. He reaches over and tries to drag Doc by his feet.
Doc hollers in pain. His legs are broken.
Is there anywhere you aren’t hurt?
There’s no time. Leave me. You must get to the lost skull ruby before Ravenhurst. It’s imperative that he doesn’t uncover the mystery of the ruby.
But Doc, I can’t just leave you hear.
Rufus tries to drag Doc again, with the same results.
Stop doing that.
Listen lad. I’m dying.
Doc coughs to make his point.
We are short on time. You must go as quick as you can to the main chamber and find the ruby. Don’t dawdle. It has always been my life’s ambition to hold the ruby in my hands. As you know it is not only an extremely priceless artifact, but the ancient wisemen of Sumaria endowed this skull ruby with magic powers.
You’ve told me that ten times already, I know.
Rufus gets up to go.
Rufus kneels back down to listen some more.
-that give the wielder complete control over all space and time. We can not afford to waste our time and have the ruby fall into the wrong hands.
Rufus stands back up.
Ravenhurst’s hands are the wrong hands.
Rufus turns to go.
I remember back when we first met.
Rufus kneels back down.
I knew your father, back in the war. He saved my life many times, me just being your ordinary occultist working for the government while he was a hard talking, hard drinking soldier. He never believed in the occult, nonsense he called it, but the times we shared.
Doc closes his eyes and Rufus stands up.
I remember this one time in Cambodia.
Rufus kneels back down again.
We were looking for the hidden doorway to the lost jungle of the braggadacio secret tombs. We had been hiking all day and my back was tremendously sore. Luckily your father had brought along his special massage oils.
Rufus quickly stands up again.
I should get to the cave before, uh, whathisname.
That’s the one. It was nice knowing you Doc. I won’t let you down.
Time is off the essence. Go my boy, Go.
Rufus runs off into the darkness of the caves.
I wish I had some of those oils now. What that man could do with those hands... how I loved him.
Doc takes a breath and dies.
I loved in a heterosexual fashion. Heterosexual.
And for real this time, Doc takes his final breath and dies.
INT. MAIN CHAMBER
Rufus runs in. The chamber is empty save a pedestal in the middle of the floor. Resting on the pedestal is the Magical Skull Ruby. It isn’t so much glowing as it is ridiculously backlit.
Rufus runs towards the skull but stops short at the sound of a GUN BEING COCKED.
Rufus turns around.
Behind him, standing in the entrance is RAVENHURST. Ravenhurst is the culmination of every pulp action villain from the 1940’s and 50’s. He oozes B-movie appeal.
Ravenhurst slowly makes his way around Rufus towards the illuminated gem.
You thought you lost me, didn’t you? Well I’m here and I’ll finally get the power I deserve.
The power of the ruby. I’ll be master of space and time.
The ruby doesn’t really work. It is, however, priceless. I say we split the money right down the middle.
Fool. I spit on your ignorance. With this ruby I will be your lord and master.
Ravenhurst runs up and snatches the ruby from the pedestal.
I can feel it. I can feel the power coursing through my veins. And before I alter all space and time I want to let you know something.
I didn’t kill your father. I am your father.
Ravenhurst laughs and evil maniacal laugh.
And now immortality is mine!
He holds out the gem and makes a horrible noise, akin to a constipated man on the toilet.
He tries again, nearly crapping his pants.
I told you, it doesn’t work. There is no such thing as magic. If this did actually have the power to rearrange space and time why aren’t the people who made it still using it. Why are they dead and forgotten by the rest of the world? If it really had the power they’d be rulers of the world by now. It just doesn’t make any sense. It’s pretty stupid if you think about it.
Ravenhurst doesn’t know what to say.
So, what do you think?
INT. DEPARTMENT STORE - DAY
Rufus sits across from the women’s dressing rooms. He is lost in his own thoughts.
MELODY [late 20’s] stands across from him trying on an elegant evening gown.
Rufus snaps too out of his daydream.
Sorry. Walter Mitty moment. You look great.
You really think so?
Melody, all smiles, hurries back into the changing room.
Rufus looks around, slightly bored and catches the TEENAGE EMPLOYEE working the dressing room looking at him.
What’s Walter Mitty
“Who’s Walter Mitty?”
What’re you asking me for, you’re the one who said it?
The teenage employee has lost interest and returns to work.
BANANA TAMURAH, [mid 20’s] cute, slightly punk rock with an eyebrow barbell, small nose stud, and a few earrings per ear sidles up on the seat next to Rufus. She has a stack of flyers in her hands.
Hey there buddy.
She extends her hand.
No. My name... it’s Banana.
He reaches forward and shakes her hand.
Ahh, I thought we were playing the fruit game.
What’s the fruit game?
I’m not sure. I was just trying to follow your lead.
Sorry. Lauren, but everyone calls me Rufus.
It’s my name.
Tamurah, but good guess. So why Rufus?
My father acquiesced to the name Lauren on my birth certificate, but refused to actually use it else where. He had a dog named Rufus growing up, and that sort of sums up our relationship. But “Rufus” just stuck.
I like Rufus- though Lauren isn’t a bad name either. Do you have a preference?
Naw, but I’m used to Rufus.
Rufus it is. And thanks for not asking.
Whether I liked Banana Yoshimoto’s work. Every always asks when I first meet them.
Didn’t think it was important.
You’re the first.
Now that you mention it, I am a bit curious, but I still won’t ask.
You can if you want.
I’ll save it for next time.
Cool. You waiting for someone?
Yeah. You normally come up to strangers in department stores?
Not normally, but you’re cute and I wanted to give you this.
She hands him a flyer. The name TWISTY STRAWS headlines the page.
That’s my band. We’re playing this Friday. You should check it out. I play bass.
She takes out a pen and writes something on the back of the flyer.
It’s a twelve dollar cover charge but if you show them this, you can get in half price.
She caps her pen and stands up.
No worries. Bring whomever you’re waiting for.
What do you guys sound like?
It’s a jazzy sort of punk. Like Morphine but with a little extra NOFX thrown in for good measure. I gotta go hand the rest of these out. See you there?
She winks and dances away in rhythm with whatever top 40 song is playing over the department store sound system.
Rufus turns the flyer over. On the back in large letters: Half off for the one who holds this flyer. On me. And an anime caricature of Banana as a banana, winking.
INT. BEDROOM - DAY
DEVI BLOOM [late 20’s] sprawled out asleep, tangled in the sheets strewn over her bed.
She shoots up, sitting at a 90 degree angle with her eyes still closed.
She falls back to the bed and opens her eyes.
She winces and brings her hand to her head - hung over.
She smacks her lips; grimaces at the taste.
She starts to gag. Her cheeks go wide as do her eyes.
She bolts out of bed, barely dressed and runs through the;
Where she vomits directly into the toilet.
She looks down at the vomit.
Man, I paid a lot of money for those egg rolls.
She flushes the toilet, stands up, walks over to the sink and brushes her teeth.
EXT. RUFUS AND DEVI’S HOUSE - DAY
A quite suburb, a quaint residential street. The house is a small two bedroom split level with a one car garage that is almost identical to ever other house on the street.