#1
- The Storyist…
Note: Some of the pieces of other stories in this web site have become parts of this story. As in "The Storyist...Jimmy the pug...Barn crows, barn singers, the last lilac..." there are actually four partial stories which are being entwined with each other simultaneously into a murder mystery of sorts; if that is not enough, an attempt will be made to evolve these notes into a screenwriting format. Know that you are not going mad when one day you read a part of this story in paragraph form, then come back a week later to find that same paragraph ripped to shreds, dissected, and re-distributed in a 'screenwriting' format. (although I have changed the 'norm' so you can actually stay awake).
Story: A terrifying moment in an alcoholic’s life is when the problem or problems they have shared with us in minute detail for so many years as excuses for over indulging, simply vanish. These things happen. Usually at the most inopportune times, like when you really need the next drink and everyone who usually buys you one to shut you up, knows you no longer have that problem; your ‘breadwinner’ has flown. Someone dies, you find money, your spouse finally leaves you, etc., nothing you can do about it, because sometimes things work out. Haven’t you ever heard “time heals all”? Well, where the hell do you think that came from? Many people I’ve met during my early escapades had spent the majority of their adult lives drinking, and as such have ‘created’ or ‘invented’ their own personalities; replete with the many nuances drinking adds to their particular aura. Kind of like a movie script, the more times it’s told, the more the story changes; usually for the better. A product of your environment; surely a bar is an environment? A ‘trait’ if you will, is the sub-conscience polishing ones particular ‘story’. Many of today’s finest actors are the ones sitting bar stools in a downtown pub. A few easy reasons for over indulging may be spousal hostility or a particularly naive friend who you stay with anyway because without his or her naïveté you would have nothing to talk about, nor an excuse to order another. Better yet, how about that wonderful job? You know the one. The one you go to in the morning after leaving your balls on the dresser. The one with the boss you should be talking to. Instead your banging the bartenders ears that your drink is watered down; when in fact, it's just another lie. We both know it’s watered down because the ice melted while you were running your mouth to a complete stranger about why you drink too much, and because you’ve been stalling, holding out the ending of your sad tail, waiting for your ‘mark’ to buy you another drink to hear the ending. I’ve heard a hundred people say they will never leave their mate, the object of their addiction. Most often, and according to them, it is the mate who needs their help and that is why they aren’t leaving! Also according to them, this is the reason for drinking in excess. I don’t know how many times I have heard “it’s a tough situation I find myself in, and if I don’t have a couple of drinks to relax, it will get the best of me.” If one day they decide to leave their mate (the supposed problem) they would have no excuse or personal problem to convey to the rest of us when drinking as the reason for the drinking. Usually in that case, we later find out it is the ‘mate’ who is tired of their ‘act’ and leaves them; only to be admonished as the one who broke up their relationship, and therefore is usually summarily chastised for it. Many times the ‘mate’ is never believed and is usually viewed by his or her peers as a liar or manipulator. When in fact, the strong will and fortitude of the ‘mate’ (the one left at home with the kids) never reaches the bar fly’s ear when a reenactment of the drinker’s view finds the stage. The saga is being told to the bar listeners; many of which listen wholeheartedly because it keeps the ‘lime light’ off of them for a brief moment while usually providing a free drink. They are thankful listeners, because until they get intoxicated, and its their turn; you know, when their ‘problem’ gets to be reenacted like so many times before. The listeners are glad they don’t have to tell their sad tale because they don’t remember who was in attendance the last time they stretched the truth and passed the blame to a fictitious, naive friend or a nagging spouse who sits at home feeding the kids. No, if they tell the tale too many times in the same bar, they know it’s possible to get tripped up in the facts. And when the jigs up, its time to move on. Don’t return unless you have a new tale of misery. Besides, just like the sun rising in the morning; when one problem vanishes, another, more sinister one emerges to take its place on the lips of the alcoholic. We find out from the silver tongued devil that he was hiding a particularly nasty tale of woe from us; he was protecting his drinking buddies from sadness. You know, as a favor to those who listen to his shit for free drinks. When a drinker senses his ‘tales of woe’ are growing week on his listening audience, it doesn’t take a drinker long to conjure another, more startling ‘vision’. To manufacture a lie the others will believe in seconds is an art. A masterful tale of woe to rival the aforementioned lie. A web of bullshit spun so tightly that any ‘listeners’ sitting at the bar and hearing those golden words, will cheer in unison because the ‘vision’ is so brilliant it fortifies and articulates all drinkers’ psyche and defensive postures when confronted with not just yours, but every one else’s drinking problems! As if dew drops from an early morning leaf; you’re canting falls on the ears of dreamers and drunkards. You’ve had just the right amount of nectar and the bullshit rolling off your tongue adds credence to even the vilest excuse for drinking, ‘I can’t stop myself’. If I hear those words come out of someone’s mouth, I usually walk over and slap the shit out of them until the whimpering stops! That’s if I can get to them before the rest of the bar pukes. But you, yes you, come up with a new and refreshing excuse to hide behind; for yours is the twisted brilliance all ‘listeners’ are waiting for. This is why many people go to bars in the first place! To hear a total stranger mimic their position of woe and therefore lend validity to their reason for drinking and getting drunk. It’s a rare occasion in deed when you hear someone actually admit, they just like to drink. They like the boost it gives them and they actually are assholes; furthermore, they don’t give a shit what you think! It’s a no win for anybody but the drinker who is sipping that one drink that puts him or her over their quota. I have seen it too many times, the person with the problem, never realizes in time just how much their ‘mate’ loves them and how much that mate has gone through for them. They’re always the last to know. If children are involved, the teaching starts early, and most often the kids don’t have a chance. They learn so fast. Many who read this observation will hate it. They will turn away and smile to themselves thinking this story is not about them; when in fact it is. Too often a very sad thing happens; that is when the ‘mate’ succumbs to the pressures, the arguments, the lambasting, and eventually gives up. They truly love the one person they are with, and feel depressed when thinking of leaving. They look at leaving as an abandonment; a view usually enforced by weak family members who for one reason or another have also pissed away their lives and browbeat their family members into thinking the same way they do, and never having the fortitude or backing of family members when they faced similar challenges, most often it’s the dearest friend or loving spouse who pays the dearest price for the ear of companionship. A person who has drank for many years, and drank excessively, could not have done it without their friends. The ones covering work. The ones lying for you. The ones covering up the bruises with makeup. Family members who believed the shit the church preached about no divorce, or 'for better or worse' as if to imply marriage and relationships are crap shoots and living with a drunken piece of shit is somehow worth your life and the lives of your children. It's too bad the churches are full of aging women and men who wasted their lives with the devil because society and their mothers and grandmothers said they should or they go to hell. It's so funny when you think of it; they are in hell when they hear it for the first time. Don't fear going out into the jungle of life. Ask....there are many crutches to lean on out there. You must know the only help must come from within you and you are free to tarry on the bench, but not forever. Others need you and your strength. Know this and never forget it...when you come to that clearing in your life where the grass is green, the warm breeze greets you, and the bright sun shines on your cheeks......do not piss into the wind!....If you do, think of it as a spring rain, and never....never....say anything to those who follow you! There is better waiting for you. It is better to be penniless and alone while standing on a warm beach in California, than to have money, a house, and hugs and kisses the next morning from those who fear you! You know what I mean; you see it in their eyes following your piece of shit act. She or he prays for a glimpse of the one they fell in love with...but a person only has so much love...when it's gone, it's gone forever. You wake one morning with no life. Take the love with you and give it to the one you see collecting shells...you have it in you....be yourself....don't be the one on alcohol or drugs....get rid of it. All the best. RJ.
to be continued...
In that case it's time to write short stories.
will be continued…RJ
Story: The first time…Three years have passed since I really
started looking back; trying to piece together instances and minor events
indiscernible at the time. Events so
minor and fleeting, it’s any wonder I saw or heard them at all.
So many incidental things happen around us every day, and I like most
people, weren’t paying attention to the ones, however slight, that constantly
reoccur throughout our lives. Hidden
like code in a cipher, most of us fail to recognize small, minute clues when
they are randomly interjected into that which we are actually seeing.
Kind of like looking into a forest from a meadow; you see the forest, but
are you actually looking at all the
trees? Do you actually see all the
animals, birds, insects watching you from the trees?
Of course not; however, your mind sees and records all the minute nuances
of that which your vision encompasses, but do you actually comprehend the
intricate forest before you? Most,
like me do not or did not. Just
the hues of green are in staggering numbers.
Can you see the bullet coming? Your
mind does! Back when I was
just an average, blue collar guy; trying to keep beer in the fridge and the
electricity on for the weekend games, there wasn’t many things that worried
me. But now, I remember the first
time like it was my last, guarded breath. I
was lying on the couch in that foggy wonderland of waking after falling asleep
during a particularly boring football game between the little darling dingfucks
of
Shhh...(It just happened again, it's happening now, as I write this story!) The figure was standing to my right, and I could see it in my peripheral vision. As soon as I turned to look, the sum-bitch disappeared! Whoa! (White, starched shirt, long sleeves, collar open, black slacks, black shoes.) (almost as if the only way I can see it is in the distorted vision of the peripheral sides of my sight, or as in rising from a nap on the couch, sleepy eyes and blurred vision). It's back..., about four feet away and on my right. I dare not turn to look. I will keep writing this to you. It's moving closer….it has stopped…it has moved around behind my right shoulder…it is reading what I am writing! Shadow, my dog is looking at it through the French doors leading to the patio. He is looking past me and his stare is following the aberration as It is now moving away and crossing the living room to my right. I'm staring straight ahead, pretending to look at the computer screen as I type, but I'm looking past the left side of the screen and out the window because the Venetian blinds are raised just enough for me to see Shadow through the window. Shadow's gaze is following it across the room. I’m going to quickly turn my head; it's gone! Shadow just barked and is now looking at me through the window with his pink tongue hanging out, begging me to come out and play; he glances back and forth as if to say "bring your friend too". What a great guy he is. Well, why not?, it all seemed natural to him! Please remember, I am writing a story about events that have occurred and like two minutes ago (8:15 p.m. 07-Thursday-07), continue to occur. Some descriptions and instances happened years ago, and some, like what I just wrote, happened as I wrote them down for you to read…
I'm getting tired, but I must write this down, lest I forget...
The Taiwanese woman, looked somehow familiar and almost cried
when I told her she could play the piano. She looked at me as though she
knew me, she wanted to hug me, but her background somehow prevented it. I
could see it in her pooled eyes she prayed for understanding and had received it
from my family to hers. My eyes became blurred as I watched her hurry to
the small chair at the key board; some times we forget how good we have it, and
the reminding can be severe. Such a little thing as an old piano bringing
such an outpouring of love and joy from a total stranger is wondrous to say the
least. She was ecstatic and could not help herself; as if a 'dream come
true'. I was quick to realize I had provided her a rarity she had
cherished in childhood. She sat a played for two hours with her back to
the rest of us sitting at the bar. She was in her own little dream world
of wonderful memories. At least for those two hours, she was in
heaven! She was with Jack, a real stand-up guy. We hope she comes
back...you can come too, Jack.
The other night my wife described an instance where two days earlier, while sleeping in the master bedroom, she was awakened by the sounds of soft, delicate, music. She remembered laying in the dark and just listening for what seemed like an hour. Finally she got out of bed and turned the light on; the music was coming from a small music box that has been sitting on top of her dresser for ten years we know of, without anyone touching it! As she watched in amazement, the soft, delicate sounds stopped. She didn't think much of it until I approached her with my short tale.
I was awakened last night with the sounds of someone opening and closing the cabinet doors in the kitchen. I had worked late, and did not want to wake my wife. I arrived home about 3:30 a.m. and slowly, quietly crept across the living room floor and came to rest sitting on the couch. I quietly laid down and soon fell off to sleep. I do not know the time, but while laying on my right side, I could see into the kitchen. I heard cabinet doors opening and shutting. I listened for about five minutes before raising myself on my right elbow and staring intently into the empty kitchen. I squinted to see someone. I though my wife was awake and looking for something; there was no one in the kitchen, it was empty. The cabinet doors were not moving, and after another five minutes the sounds abated. I slowly lay back down and went back to sleep.
Yet, just when you 'move on' from one unexplainable experience, another pops up to slow your day. Again, I was in my room watching beautiful hues of green with crimson overtones through my wine bottle as I took another drink. I was in deep concentration regarding the chances they actually designed the bottle so someone like me could raise it and drink freely from the spout without the need of a glass? Shallow, but vital information for one practicing repeatedly to get it right. A drunk has all the qualifications and nuances required of true art. If one were to list all requirements to attained true drunkenness, mercy, and irresponsibility, similarities to the great masters would be shocking. Freedom, pain, blindness, deafness, sickness, distortion or sight, sound, and color; its all there. The honking of horns below and the soft pink glow as the hotel calls its name has come. As I turn my head, an empty, dark green, bottle lay in the middle of the shiny, slatted floor. Should I rise, can I rise? The night sounds and stage await and call to all invisible drunkards who have mastered the art of meandering through nights hues of black and gray, if only the glow of their cigarette pierces reality. I ask myself again, should I rise and go out looking for that one thing none have found? Should I rise, walk across the floor, splash some water on my face, stare into the fucking mirror, while trying not to see how age has overtaken me once again? Shall I light a cigarette, take the first drag as I step out into the searing, blinding light of the hallway, as the broken door shuts and lock behind me? Shall I inhale the awful stench of urine as I look down at the faded paisley carpet nailed to the creaking floor boards? Shall I turn to look at the invisible person standing behind me? He will just vanish as I turn, like so many times before. I can feel his breathing, and hear his heart. He is so close he is suffocating. The aberration is touching but not touching, I quicken my step. The banging of the stairs under my boots drown the sound of rushing air. My heart is pounding inside my chest as I leap from stair to stair in the hopes of outpacing the feeling. I quickly turn to look from the first landing, there is nothing to see but I sense something coming fast, a blur of darkness and gray. The collective pains from hitting the banister and walls will have to wait. I drive myself into the cold, wet, night air. Fuck it, I'm all in, I can't run anymore. I fall against the wet brick building. The cool, wet, brick against my cheek stops my head from pounding, if only for a moment. If I could just stay longer. If the cool prop could just support my frame a little longer, just a little longer please. I close my eyes in fear and raise my head to inhale as if it were my last breath! Cold air passes my nostrils and the sound of lungs filling make me faint and lightheaded. The brick has reached out and hit me again. I lean foreword gasping for air as my eyes open; with the exception of two blurred shadows scurrying like rats on the next corner, I am alone on the street. The witching hour has begun. No one wants to be on the streets when the drunks are awake. No one wants to share in their rare view of life. No one wants to hear browbeaten reality and stories of ghosts, visions, and views from a bottle. Amazing what becomes important amidst fear; where the hell did that cigarette go? I can just make out the blinking cocktail sign on the next block...I can't remember if their 'all night'....so many decisions to make if you get out of bed...I wonder if the paisley is burning in the hallway upstairs...where the hell did that cigarette go?....screw it, the rain will put it out...man it's wet in the real world....
to be continued…RJ
continued from above...
Barn
crows, barn singers, the last lilac…
Original manuscript
in progress by
Charles
J. Carmody
Story:
INT:
CHURCH-DESCRIPTION
Old,
turn of the century rundown theater in that particular location of town visited
by everyone but you; ghetto would be kind. In the dim lighting, rows of worn
velour theater seats stand at attention. Real lead crystal tulip lamp shades
line the walls as a reminder of the theaters better days.
The room was replete with warmth, enhanced by the small, yellow,
flickering flames dancing behind that exquisite crystal. High on the walls those
extraordinary lights proved too much for looters to take.
The warm, yellow hues cascade faintly down sooty walls to cast a faint
glow on vintage carpet. Only the
smell of popcorn, movie stars, and the din of patrons discussing them by first
name are missing. Staircases,
once used by tabloid regulars, are located each side of the stage and are now
home to vagrants and rats. Tearing under their own weight, heavy, thick, cotton
stage curtains hang from iron rails and threaten to smother the next act.
The ceiling above is too obscure for a person’s eye to focus, but
whispering can be heard from the rafters. As
I bend to sit in one of the vintage seats, the pungent odors of urine and puke
rise from the forty year old carpet to greet the new comer.
This is the ‘Roxy’.
INT:
CHURCH
Jimmy
(Slumped
down in a mid-row chair, hands in his overcoat pockets, elbows tucked inside the
arm rests, slowly looking from side to side, muttering under his breath) The
small stage in front of the room has movement on it.
There is a dark figure standing yet slumped over the podium mumbling
incoherently and yelling intermittently when summoned from delusion.
INT:
CHURCH
Jimmy
STILL
SITTING - EYES CLOSED – TRYING TO REMEMBER – MUMBLING TO HIMSELF
“I
must be dreaming! Where the hell is
this place, and how did I get here? I remember drinking scotch and being thrown
out on my ear; I don’t remember how I ended up in this shit hole”
INT:
BAR
Jjmmy
REMEMBERING THE PAST FEW HOURS
Old
community bar, everyone knows each other or is related. Worn
oak chairs and tables; cheap, battery powered lights, one on each table.
Wall lined with picture frames and photos of celebrity ‘no-shows’;
all signed by ghosts. None were
authentic, but Bruno says customers like them and don’t ask.
Lighting was dim at best. Conversations
were at a whisper because a stranger was sitting at the bar.
Locals were taking turns keeping an eye on him, while the stranger pissed
them off with his presence. The
stranger really pissed them off by sipping his 12 year old scotch and ignoring
their whispers. With a glance from
the regulars, Bruno sensed it was time for him to waltz over, stand in front of
the stranger, and gives his famous “get the hell out of here before I hurt you
speech”. All this in a white,
sleeveless ‘T’ shirt dappled with light brown stains for ‘effect’.
Of course the stench of last nights cheap, red wine emanating from his
pores and that special oily sweat running from his armpits was a special touch
only ‘Bruno’ could master.
INT:
BAR
BRUNO
– BARTENDER
FOR
HIRE/ODD JOBS
A
two hundred, forty pound ex-rock star bodyguard hired for his brains.
Looking for attention, Bruno set one clenched fist menacingly on the bar
while the other brandished a vintage wooden bat, dappled with the unmistakable
patina of dried blood.
INT:
BAR
Jimmy
SLOWLY
RAISING HIS HEAD TO SEE WHY THE MUSIC STOPPED
Not
two inches from his face, and barely discernable, was “The Babe” burned into
the worn hilt of Bruno’s wooden accomplice.
INT:
BAR
BRUNO
TO
AVOID WITNESSES, BRUNO LEANED OVER WHILE HE SPOKE
“Hey
buddy, can you hear me? I said, hey,
can you hear what I’m saying?”
INT:
BAR
Jimmy
“Yes,
I can hear what you’re saying. What
do you want? Am I bothering
somebody?
INT:
BAR
BRUNO
“Yes
asshole, your bothering my customers. Where
you from, anyway? Do I know you?”
INT:
BAR
Jimmy
“It’s
none of your business where I’m from. If
you knew me, you’d be lost too. Now, why don’t you just back off and let a
guy have a drink!”
INT:
BAR
BRUNO
LOOKING
AROUND THE ROOM TO SEE WHO WAS WATCHING AND WHO HEARD WHAT THE STRANGER SAID
“We
don’t like strangers in here, especially ones with attitude.
You got that slick?”
EXT:
BAR
Jimmy
SMILING
TO HIMSELF AS HE SLOWLY RISES FROM HIS STOOL TO LEAVE
Bruno
drives the ‘stranger’ stumbling to the door with “The Babe”.
The locals finish it by beating him unconscious and throwing him out into
the pouring
EXT:
STREET
(The
place was closed when Steve ‘came to’; soaked and lying in the middle of the
street, it was time to go home)
INT:
BACK TO REALITY INSIDE THE CHURCH
PREACHER
(Over
six feet tall; a dark foreboding individual with his great arm extended and a
wicked finger pointing at Steve)
“If
you be the puppet of oppressors through no fault of your own, relish the
knowledge fear is a staff carried by deviates and sweaty pigs!”
INT:
CHURCH
Jimmy
(Not
believing his ears, and frozen in confusion while mentally retracing last nights
steps, Steve stared at the orator pointing in his direction)
INT:
CHURCH
Jimmy
(While
watching the preacher’s eyes flick red, his hangover was wearing off but he
was still having a hard time focusing on the dark clothed figure preaching from
the stage in front of him)
INT:
CHURCH – MUTTERING TO HIMSELF
“I remember drinking scotch into the early morning and being thrown out
into the rain; I don’t remember how I ended up in this musty beggar’s
chapel?”
INT:
CHURCH - STAGE
PREACHER
(Seeing
he has Steve’s attention, lowers his arm and his glare while dropping his head
to return to an object of intense scrutiny hidden by the rim of his pulpit)
“Like
weathered drift wood, their staff caries with it the well worn patina of
deception. It’s the instrument of
manipulators. One may not recognize
its intended purpose in the company of clergy until you’ve bowed down and your
money is gone. Write a book of fear,
have ornate perverts read it out loud, replete with stories of heartache and woe
and you’ve got their attention. Threaten
your listeners with retribution and the strap, and you control everything else
they hold dear.”
INT:
CHURCH
Bodies of the poor and retched were slumped over and huddled trying to stay warm. An ‘ear banging’ was a small price to pay for a bowl of soup and a safe place to drown in misery. Unfortunately, the fire and brimstone being thrown from the small stage was the only sober participant in an unfair competition with the stench of the unclean. Incessant farting and a raucous chorus of snoring competed with words of doom. The free bowl of soup was not free after all. The sermon waft the room as the intended recipients were content to send letters to Castro.
INT: CHURCH
Jimmy
(head pounding and thinking hard)
Luck was with me on that fateful early morning, for had I been driven to seek shelter from the driving rain. Leaving the best pieces of my raincoat on the wet pavement, I used a trick I had learned while a young handsome child, after riding a particularly demonic carnival ride; I leaned forward so the saliva and puke didn't hit my shirt and walked towards the white light.
INT: CHURCH
Jimmy
(crouched low in
the faded, red, velour theater seat. Rain coat collar hiding his
face. The acid smell of his own puke breath curling his nose hairs.)
Thinking out low and describing his situation to himself as if a spectator, not a
participant.
I too would have downed the
‘magical’ gruel and added to the incendiary nature of the small enclosed
space I now found myself. I mistakenly thought my silence would afford me a
degree of invisibility; yet I now find the orator staring at the only fool
moving, the only fool with open eyes; me.
His gaze released me from its grip, just long enough to quaff something from a tall stein sitting on a small three legged stool. As he drank, the liquid glistened in the candlelight as it ran off his face and down his long black coat. As if a creature startled, he turned back to face the flock; and again, as he cast his gaze over the deaf, it fixed itself on me. It was as if a lion locates the scent of his next kill! He senses game, turns towards that direction, stops and stares in the direction of the strongest scent of fear. I turned my head, but to no avail, I can feel hate entwined with defiance as he glared at the lone soul in the room. It was then, he started in again;
INT: CHURCH-ON STAGE
PREACHER
(calling to
the rafters, right arm extended with fist clenched and shaking)
“feed your fear and hatred to gatherings of those missing a chapter, or dolts who cannot take responsibility for their own lives, then pass the basket and let them buy their way ‘in’ before their wives find out. Tell them tithes are for those who are less worthy, for those needing help. Don’t tell them the “less worthy” are sitting the pews! Tell them gold begets sin and remind them with whispers of good from yesteryear and if they empty their pockets they’ll be closer to ‘Shangri-La’. For I tell you, the brutal murder of a man called Jesus is no more brutal or painful than he who was beaten and tortured yesterday! The difference is invisible. Is the rape of our women and less brutal? I ask you, is the burden they carry any less painful? Do they not ask why they too have been forsaken? Do we need to add splinters to wounds to garner compassion? Does a spear in the side make acts of evil any more sacred? Do we need to drive spikes through your hands and feet so you can feel love? No I say, no to the fear mongers who would twist a story to keep you in fear, to keep the masses under the thumb!”
INT: CHURCH-SITTING
Jimmy
I caught myself actually listening to what he was saying. He obviously had a whole different slant on the teachings the church was offering. He had a whole different slant on the ‘why’ too. Again, after another bath from the bottomless stein; he spat on the stage, and stuffed a handkerchief into his great mustache to clear his nostrils. Not a pretty thing for objects of his wrath to see; then again, other than myself, who was watching? He gave the ‘audience’ one more look, and then did something I hadn't expected; he sat on the three legged stool and breathed a great sigh of relief. Watching this tired wretch was like watching a creature in death throws. It was if my eyes had just opened; for all of a sudden, he seemed very tired and very old. For a moment, he looked as if he was very alone, as if he truly believed he was the only one in the room. His eyes looked from one side of the room to the other as if searching for something he had lost; the way one looks around when they find out they had dozed for just a second while others were in the same room. Then once again, his now softer eyes, came to rest on me. He looked for a moment, and then smiled a great smile. The kind of smile you see when someone is really glad to see you. The kind of smile you see when someone has been waiting a long time for you to arrive and you are lucky enough to catch a glimpse of their great pleasure when you finally do arrive! With head bowed towards the stage, softly, he started talking out loud again;
INT:
CHURCH-ON STAGE
PREACHER
“Consider there are those you have put ‘on high’ who would have you believe spikes appropriate. They did then, and they do now. Secret societies are still amongst us my friend. They’re writing the next translation to perpetuate the manipulation of the masses. They are re-translating ancient parchment, for yesterday’s translation is wearing a little thin among the younger generation. They will tell them it’s their duty to pay for forgiveness and sing to a fever pitch; all the while pretending a great myth is listening. They are asking you to sing words they themselves have never believed. They will be telling you they possess the righteousness to administer unto you forgiveness. Be warned, in truth, they can administer no more forgiveness than barn crows and scavengers sitting the pews. Know the stinking beggar sitting the curb can hear the same words for a bowl of soup! I ask you truthfully, is it any different selling, trading, lending and changing money in the temple than sitting the pews while forcing a lackey to work the store for you? Clutching his throat while coughing and gagging out loud as if something was strangling the frail life out of him for what he had said.
INT: CHURCH-STANDING
Jimmy
I stared as the rant continued I could hear trembling in his voice; his courage a fine thread as if begging for breath. As his frail, thin, black clad body leaned on the podium for strength, as if tormented by some invisible evil and shaking wildly, he slowly raised his head and peered in my direction. He smiled again, and then, with great effort, raised the stein of courage with an outstretched arm in my direction; ‘the dog that bit you has returned to hell’ As I stood in front of the theater chair I was sitting in, the bottom softly brushed my calves as it quickly raised itself to the closed position again. I squinted to see in the dimly lit room. I made it to the aisle and slowly walked to the stage. Using the hidden stairs to the right of the platform, I walked to where he was sitting. I sat on the polished wooden floor to his left and dared not to look in his direction for fear my eyes would meet his and some terrible affliction would befall me.
INT:
CHURCH-STAGE
PREACHER
The preacher watched with that intense gaze. As Steve positioned himself on the floor, he passed the stein and motioned for Steve to take a drink.
INT: CHURCH-STAGE
Jimmy
My hand was shaking as I raised the mug to my lips. I expected the sweet, pungent odor of a cheap white port; instead my senses abandoned me altogether when the thick aroma of loganberries and burnt thirty weight oil curled my nasal hairs. The sickening smell of saliva mixed with cigarettes lined the rim of this spittoon; I was getting dizzy. The slimy liquid trickled down the back of my throat as I supped the octane. Its no wonder my host can’t raise his head for any length of time. I start to hear mutterings from the now, lowered head;
INT:
CHURCH-STAGE
PREACHER
“The barn crows will try to control the spirit within you. The good in you is manipulated until it is foul in your eyes. The barn singers’ haven’t succeeded unless they can make you bow your head in shame so you cannot see the fear of the masses in their eyes. The need to see the same shame on your face they see in the mirror every morning is too much for them; the terror is true in your eyes. Contributing not to mankind has proven too much for them; yet they mime the words of the past in hopes of convincing you the past is the true teacher of man, you have gone astray. To take the spirit that is yours and yours only is their true goal; they try because they have only borrowed translations of life to beat you with. They even try to control your emotions by telling you death a sad thing, and it is to be feared. They are the idiots of those needing ignorant armies. You have lost no love because of it. You will be missed by those whom you have touched; missed by that which loved you, no more! Ask no more. Ask not the town come out to your grave, for you are not there. You were never there.
INT: CHURCH-STAGE
Jimmy
How can
you know this, I asked? How can you
know these things?
INT:
CHURCH-STAGE
PREACHER
“Know that your God is you. You are loved by your spirit. Seek not the favor of man, but share in the truth and the spirit. The voice of your God comes through you, from you, not interpretations and translations of others who have put themselves on-high by interpreting the events of the past to fit today’s society. Know this; beauty of the body stays in the earth while beauty of the soul travels forever. Know all things live and that we are the visitors and we are forever alive in our universe experiencing life. We are the children of no one. We are not the followers of pedophiles and deviates hiding behind gold and a fear of mankind. Where there is no life, we are gone. We bring life with us; therefore, we are the carriers of life. Life may be there before us, but not as us. We are much desired in the universe, for all life must go with us. We have no choice which to leave behind. We are chosen by our evolution, by life before us, to protect and perpetuate all life. There are no other you! You are the carrier of a unique voice and consciousness throughout eternity. You forever carry with you the spirit of mankind. You are mankind! Do not live by script, live by that which is good in you. Be true to yourself and those who pass your gaze; for they will look intently, if not briefly for trickery and dishonesty. To know not your brethren as individuals is to place yourself between them while lined up for the dole. I say to you, fear not the controllers of the ignorant who are sponsored and perpetuated by the wealthy and never turn your cheek from he who causes pain. To turn your cheek is to deny your true place in the universe. Know this, you are not born submissive, let the striker know it before he plays the fool! You are not born with the fear of retribution; it must be taught to you. Know that fear is all the moneychangers have. It is because of this they have built barns to teach you retribution is wrong; if you seek retribution you will burn in hell, you must turn the other cheek their employees cry from the pulpit! If they do unto you acts of deviance, they do not want to be punished by you, so they threaten you with hell. They threaten you with jail. Jesus threatened no man with hell, yet they jailed him, beat him mercilessly, and finally stabbed him to death with a spear! Those who think alike are still here. Furthermore, do not waste your uniqueness and your individual sprit; do not become the mime of the masses. Even a man called Jesus would not have it! Man does not need armies to serve and protect the moneychangers. Man needs armies to serve and protect the weak. Know this in your heart! Earth needs leaders speaking hope, faith, and future. Smile in your heart, for you are already loved; hence you would not be here. You have purpose in our universe, you are a precious commodity my friend! There will never be another you in my world!
INT: CHURCH-STAGE
Jimmy
He turned his head and looked into the darkness which lay before him. Darkness filled with the moans of drunks, sinners, the poor and destitute. The stench in the musty room was reminiscent of bogs and mires, earthen, yet mixed with rotten, half eaten food. As he stood, he looked back toward me for a moment, then turned and looked towards the filthy as if in a moment of deep thought.
INT:
CHURCH-STANDING
PREACHER
Do not spend your precious moments seeking the ear of gold seekers. A nod from across the room is the sycophant seeking more. You are needed by those who share you. Know this and participate in humanity. We are all saviors. Know your brothers keeper, for he is you. He is the one who lives at the depths of the pond. You can only see him if you kneel by the edge in the cool mud looking in. The keeper waits, for he is the keeper of life, he is you. You are the one coming again. Do you know the face of the fear they teach? For if you do you are blessed; you can see fear coming, it cannot look you in the eye, lest you look away for an instant! You will see it cross the room, its head bobbing so not to meet anyone’s gaze directly but to look at an individual from askew, as if hidden. If you know it, then be at peace, for then you know fear will always share a room with you. Do not despise that which you know. You will hear it speaking through your voice. Your heart is your warning; use it well, for it protects you. Fear is your shield from that which fosters harm. Never look away. Let it know you see it, feel it; then manipulate it as it attempts to manipulate you. Breath deep the stench of ignorance, know it also; wallow in it until you feel comfortable speaking its tongue. Then do what ignorance wants, be the teacher and tell it all that you know. Know this; apathy is a moss growing in shadows; for in the warm, moist, darkness it is evil. You are the gardener of man, prune back the shade and let the sun in, the stench will vanish for apathy cannot grow in the light of truth; evil cannot survive the cruelty of truth. Evil cannot survive a world without shadows; a world without places to hide. The robes fear clarity and truth for it is foreign to their tongue; it cannot be intertwined with threats and lies. How can an untruth be told to the singers unless you know the truth? Know this; if you live in the shadows of torches on hills, an ignorant work force is needed. Torches summon the ignorant. They will summon the new armies of challenge and change. To offer the food of kindness and truth is blessed; to create false boarders with torches on hills and force feed the ignorant is sinful. Therefore I say to you, do not join armies of the past. Know a new world, know yourself. That which can protect you is courage and love of mankind, for the masses will follow both, and masses are armies and armies are protection from false ‘on high’. Know the armies of barn crows and barn singers butchered and murdered your brethren for not believing as they were taught, for not paying the toll. If there is slaughtering of mankind to be done; let not the stench reach your door. Seek out that which hunts you under the guise of righteousness, and loosed the vilest spirit on him! Let him see that which he dreams of, let him feel that which he seeks; let the stench of death be his last lilac. It is not for us to forgive that which inflicts death upon us. It is not our place to run from screams. The howling of man calls to the spirit of reason, and if reason away, then the army of the lilac will know insanity comes. It is enough to know, insanity knows not the tear. Only coins are needed in baskets of barn singers, not sorrow; for sorrow buys nothing and therefore has no worth in the kingdom of the righteous. Sorrow adds no gold to the altar. An ignorant army is encamped where torches burn on the hills. For I say to you, the only symbol of love cannot be one man carrying the burden and sins of the human race; his example is the right, not the acts of idiocy that drove him to the example. Wealth and houses built of slaves are not impervious to lunacy. All men must carry the burden of the human race. All men and woman must symbolize love and compassion, not an effigy in a shrine or porcelain figurines made by money changers. Lest you forget, an ignorant force is needed to provide labor for the barn singers, the barn crows. For the wealthy property owners to eat grapes, fear must be constant. The workers must always see the fear from the fields! They must be reminded by symbols of fear on high. Large barns will be built as symbols of grandeur and righteousness with monies needed for food and shelter, not. You know in your heart this is so, for you know righteousness and compassion was in man before barns, shrines. Before golden temples asked you to pay for it and bow down to the sweaty pedophile under the robe. Righteousness and compassion were in the hearts of peoples before a few of our brethren horrendously chained and beat a human being, paraded him through the streets, and then drove spikes through his living flesh! The wealthy did this savage thing because they were afraid of loosing control of mankind. Afraid of loosing control of those they whipped and raped. Workers will be made to feel they share a common good, they are one with the moneychangers; when in fact a small price to pay for labor to let them sing for you! The barn singers will infiltrate and control the schools and minds of the young workers and tax others to pay for it. Schools will be controlled by the voters, not the needs or the thirst for knowledge. Knowledge will be controlled by the money. The money will scrutinize the books and that which your child hears. Ask yourself, if knowledge being taught to your children truly fosters competition and capitalism, who would want it, surely not the mansion on the hill? Knowledge is controlled and doled out by the barn singers, the barn crows. A crows shadow is brief, unless it is allowed to lite. Then their crowing is incessant. Fear them not, but know they feed on carrion, that which is dead, dying, or helpless. This is the way of barn singers, the way of the barn crows. Remember, without the helpless, crows have nothing to watch; they have nothing to feed their appetite. Without suffering they are gone. Cast out the barn builders and aristocratic crows and use the wood to provide shelter for the homeless and work for the poor. Teach the workers knowledge, and let them know pride, for clergy teach pride a sin. It is the people who control the world and their own destiny; not words of perversion. Cast out those who fear the sun and speak to you from ‘on high’. Listen not to the idiot wielding a staff or wearing a crown while hiding in the vestibules of his pathetic mind and doing that which he is told by a myriad of cloaked readers and whisperers. If it is solace you require, talk amongst yourselves and receive kindness and tenderness. Talk to your wife, your friends, and especially your enemies; for if they lie to you, at least you will know the words are theirs. Look not to worship the invisible while begging salvation from a book. Tell not the crows of your most intimate actions, for with this power they will control you and those you speak, for they possess not an elixir to forgive any man. The millions who repent and confess their activities to sycophants are telling them who to punish, and is telling them who believes not their doctrine of fear. It tells them if their teachings of fear is working. Build your own house. Plant you own crops. Sing your own song. Pay no man to be part of his masses. Pay not those who build shrines of gold; pay those who build homes. Man is a temple unto himself. Love all you survey and become your own king. Upon birth, we are all loved. Upon death we are all missed. Know you are unique. Know you created the words love, forgiveness, compassion, truth, fairness, honesty, kindness, and all other words of our tongue. Compassion was not here before humanity. To you I say fear not our life but naïveté can kill; therefore, I say to you again, remember man created every word in our tongue, even that which sucks the life from that which we love! Do not listen to those who make you kneel and pray whilst listening to hours of your failings for those who know not life outside fear of you. You will pay to man that which you take from man. Is your naiveté' so honed by barn singers that you believe riches await you for not fighting back, for turning the other cheek when cruelty is inflicted upon your neighbor? Do you honestly believe the screams of our child bearers, our precious women as their flesh caught fire and turned black to cinder before their heart stopped its beat when burned alive at the stake by religious pigs allowed by man! Do you believe golden streets await you for watching the flames and the writhing female tied to the pole while smelling burning meat in the name of the church, worthy of man! Go and protect life. Go and protect all of us from hirelings of trinkets and robes. Let them kiss the feet of the dead. Protect the weak from those who use the lash on man, the killers of life in man!
INT: CHURCH
The act had ended with a tormented, dark, figure writhing on stage while raising his mug of swill to his lips, and all to no avail. As life itself, the container had failed its owner. The only thing pouring from the mug to greet my host was his rancid breath. Before the preacher could catch his composure, Steve had risen from his seat and stumbled his way to the door. The audience had left the theater.
EXT: CHURCH DOORWAY
Dark, cold, pouring rain and gutters threatening to overflow. The streets glistened under the shorting street light. This section of town doesn't get much attention from the city crews. The rain is pounding, can't see across the street.
EXT: STREET
A black and white police cruiser snakes its way along the swollen gutters while shining its spotlight up alleys and into doorways to roust the discouraged and beaten. Move on to where they say? The cruiser never stops, just slows long enough to give the rats time to relocate. It's like sweeping with a straw broom, you move dust around but nothing really gets clean. The dust just moved out of the spotlight for a moment, that's all.
EXT: CHURCH DOORWAY
Jimmy
Looking in through the small, face high window on the door, and back into the theater; to his amazement, the stage was empty. Time to move on, the booze is wearing off, and there's no speaker tonight.
EXT: CHURCH DOORWAY , NIGHT– HEAVY RAIN FLOWING OFF STREET LIGHT SHADES – NIGHT-STREET LIGHTS DIM.
Jimmy
(still in doorway)
Trying to keep cigarette lit while briefly looking into the street to keep an open eye on his situation, Jimmy stopped moving and breathing for just a second. Not fifty feet away, the cruiser stopped. The pouring rain was aglow red when the brake lights went on. Two dark, ominous shadows opened the cars doors and got out. One on the drivers side, the larger one on the passengers side. Both wearing draped, rubber, raincoats; they looked wicked in the distortion of the deluge. It was not hard to see one of them had a baton out and was slapping it into the palm of his hand while looking Jimmy's direction. The other doughnut was standing and waiting for something to happen; anything to happen, because under that tent, he was holding an old friend; not what you think, when on shift, it's his sixteen year old 38 cal. special.
EXT: CHURCH DOORWAY, NIGHT.
JIMMY
Jimmy backs into the doorway; so much he can feel the door hinge digging into his back. He could still see the menace as he looked through the two sets of windows. They just stood motionless. All of a sudden, a figure reminiscent of the aberration he saw in his room, lingering at the foot of his bed, moved passed him with a sudden swoosh! Towards the two officers it went, arms flailing; seconds later, the doughnut boys lay motionless on the wet sidewalk. I dare not admit this moment. I look the other way and quickly back. Puffs of warm smoke exit the exhaust pipe of the cruiser as two bodies lay to either side; the aberration was gone. "What the hell just happened?" A quick look up and down the street; no one was moving, no one would admit it.
Muttering to him self and thinking of the special moment he now found himself in:
It always ends like this. First a few drinks to get loose and sociable following some extraordinary occurrence. Then some kind of misunderstanding; people just can’t leave you alone while you sip scotch and try to decipher that extraordinary occurrence. And finally, a new and exciting, drunken extraordinary occurrence to recall when you wake and sober up the next day. Was that venomous sermon meant for me or had sanity vanished from the stage in bits and pieces while I watched? Was I the ‘one who was in the wrong place at the wrong time’? Or is this just one of those quaint sideshows that occurs in the bottoms? One of those expected oddities that occur when roaches creep the bottoms. The dark, wet, musty scents of discouragement intermingled with alcohol and drugs make the south end what it is. Sometimes, the punks from ‘up town’ looking for a cheap thrill roam the streets in the light of day; you know the toughies. At night, it’s a whole different story. If they come, they never get out of the car. They cruise by dark doorways in the rain and tempt fate. They ride with their girl friends in daddy’s car, back seat packed with their buddies hoping to ruffle the sheets just enough to tickle terror and evoke fear but not enough to force courage to run down their legs. Trying to create a memory and satisfy their craving for excitement by poking and prodding the huddled, cold, vagrant laying in an open doorway. If the vagrant, two hundred and fifty pound early release rapist wakes, beats the punks’ senseless and rapes their girlfriends, he goes back to jail, where it’s warm. Kind of like poking a bear in a cage with a stick, the punks never try getting out of the car to show their courage without the bars holding the bear. Bars of alcoholism, drug addiction, poverty, starvation, heart breaking loneliness; if they only knew why there are ‘south ends’ in every town. If they’re lucky in their travels through sadness, it will be an old guy who lost his family in a fire and can’t live or defend himself. Or the poor bastard I listened to yesterday in a bar just down the street, which lost his daughter in the war. His wife left him because he can’t forgive himself while overpowering sorrow fights hatred for his soul. In his mind, and with every drink, he reasons not to relive his pain is somehow forbidden when it’s your only child. His bar stool held up insurmountable sorrow and guilt that night. After catching a glimpse of a beer soaked photo of a little girl on the bar, I had to go. Whoever he and his wife called to for compassion, hadn’t listened in years. They never even asked where he went, down at the factory. The factory wasn’t there when the official looking telegram came. Neighbors’ smiles and waves were abruptly distant and short. The money ran out, and tall weeds grew where once a manicured lawn was laid. Newspapers stood like camp fire wood leaning against the front door. A single light was left on at night. His slumped shadow, visible through lace curtains became a source of conversation and curiosity between neighbors passing in the night. They would slow, and then drive past. Never wanting to intrude, the door bell never rang. And what the hell am I going through? Fucking creatures in the night, fucking dead doughnut boys!
EXT: ALLEY.
JIMMY
Sliding along a brick wall glistening in the din of golden light coming from a familiar, ten dollar room. Shadows moved past the opening and loud cussing could be heard. The faint voice of a women pleading with drunk company trickled out the opening and down the bricks to where Jimmy sat. I can feel it coming again (he told himself), he watched as a large shadow moved up the wall and grabbed the slippery lower step of the fire escape ladder hanging just low enough so the punks can break into every room in the building. The large figure pushes in the broken door at the top of the platform and enters an all too familiar, dark hallway. He listens intently to find the room with the view. All of a sudden, the bullshit stops! The figure of a man comes flying out the open window and lands on the pavement! No more pleading tonight, problem solved! Jimmy was grinning as he crouched next to the building. The rain was drowning out the tough guys cries for mercy. He finally stopped moving, and two cats ran over to lick the dead.
EXT: ALLEY.
JIMMY
(staring in disbelief at the body laying on the pavement in front of him)
Walks over to get a better view and sees the wallet laying next to the lifeless, disfigured pile of shit. "Thanks buddy", I needed another drink. He opens it to find a fin and two ones. A shit eaten grin comes over the unshaven face of reality as he gives the corpse one more kick. As the Pug starts to walk off, a feeling of company makes his breathing silently slow. He turns slowly and looks down the alley; nothing. The feeling is persistent; he is not alone. Just then, a tiny piece of brick falls from above, causing Jimmy to dart to an outside wall and quickly look up! A badly bruised, young woman was watching him from the open window. He couldn't make out her face, but her thin silhouette in the dim night light, is the stuff dreams are made of. He put the money back in the wet, leather wallet and threw it up to her. She caught it and whispered, "thank you". With that, she watched as the big guy slowly walked towards the street light and disappeared around the corner. The rain had started again and a cool mist was blowing into the ten dollar room with the open window. Bare, restless thighs waited for the big guy to return to the room with a view. It was going to be a long night.
EXT: STREET, RAIN POUNDING THE STREETS.
JIMMY
There has to be a bar open somewhere. He looked back, just in time to see vagrants going through the pockets of the doughnut boys. You could hear a faint siren off in the distance, but getting closer to the quiet cruiser with cold seats. The two dead cops will be naked before coffee and donuts arrive!
INT: HOTEL STAIRCASE.
JIMMY
The front door stuck open
because rain had swollen the door frame; the broken squares of wet linoleum
shined like
INT: HALF WAY UP THE HOTEL STAIRCASE, THE FIRST, DARK, LANDING.
JIMMY
Yea but what about most of the time when your picking butts out of ashtrays? What about the times your fingers are shaking so bad you can't strike the match? What about the times your just to the first, dark, landing on the stairs in a dump hotel and you sense someone is sitting on the stairs in front of you but you can't see them? You are so close you can hear their breathing but they don't move. You know, like right now when the hair on the back of your neck is standing straight out! You feel like your being sucked into a dark hole! Just kidding, as you stumble over a drunk, sleeping on the stairs, trying to get out of the rain. The moaning wakes you to your senses as you creep past the dreamer, who for a few moments is back home chasing chickens on the family farm. Lucky bastard, shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
INT: HOTEL, TOP OF THE STAIRS, FACING HIS ROOM, AND PAUSING.
JIMMY
I sure hope that evil fuck has left for the night. The key works.....
INT: HOTEL, 2ND FLOOR, THE PUG'S ROOM.
The room was very dark, and except for the red neon light warming the window ledge one would have thought it an abandoned cubicle in a far away ghetto, and they would be right. After my eyes adjusted to the depth of nothingness, I could just make out an old friend waiting in the middle of the room. Waiting in the darkness was my confidant, my warmth, and the one thing that kept me from the hard wooden floor; my couch. Not much to look at and a back breaker if you wanted to watch the whole game; nevertheless, all things good and unfailing comrade when scotch is the critic. The window was open and the curtains were pulled to one side, rain drops stepped into the room from the window ledge. Their second step left the dull wooden floor immediately below the window, shiny and glistening. There will be banging from those same droplets hitting the TV in the cell below. The old woman can’t see shit, but her hearing is excellent! It was time for my other constant companion to enter my room, a slight breeze, laden with the sweet, humid stench of overflowing gutters below falls in the open window and threatened to stay every night. I’ve no idea when it leaves, but it’s gone when I wake. A melody starts about one in the morning, when pigeons coo from their haven inside the broken copper façade located just above my suite. I sat in the dark, while the smoke from a cigarette threatened to kill me, just thinking of the events tonight. The vintage yellow and chrome chair was comfortable enough while watching the corner room just above the alleyway. There’s an interesting window, with warm, golden light and a young girl leaning out between the faded curtains above the coroner’s car. She’s watching the show below, as police awkwardly carry the two heavy doughnut boys through swollen gutters and their last ride. The mist and drizzle blurred my view, but she somehow looked familiar. I heard she had a drunken boyfriend who cussed a lot and beat her. Who would beat a young girl, I wondered. Someday he’ll get his, they always do. It’s funny, but the cops never look too hard for the last person to see the ‘tough guys’ alive. In all, three cars were there; first was the second police cruiser, second was the coroner’s wagon, and third, was the one waiting for them like a homely date, alone on a corner. There were six men standing in the rain and not one of them was looking around for the creature that killed their mates. For that matter, none of them were even looking around. It’s as if finding these bodies was a natural occurrence. I suppose there is a certain degree of apathy garnered over the years, but somehow the three of them standing there drinking coffee and talking about the big game added sleaze to the stage. Like finding out you stepped on a snail. Real ugly, slimy, and you’re never going to touch it. This will have to ware off. One of them walked to the cruisers and turned off the red and blue dancing lights, leaving the running lights on. I was getting tired of the show and should have lain down, but as fate would have it, I lit another cigarette! One of the cops quickly looked up, and through the clearing mist, he saw the ever so brief flame emanating from my lighter, picture framed in a totally black window opening! He yelled something to his partner and they both came running to that very special, swollen door, left ajar at the bottom of the stairs. I watched for a second, until I could hear the pounding as they forced the door at the bottom of the stairs open. Their heavy boots pounding the frail stair treads as they bounded up the stairway. They hit the first landing with a bang! I could hear yelling and cussing as they climbed the last ten feet to the upper landing. They paused for a moment, and in a panic found their guns under their heavy, cumbersome slickers. Each carrying their courage in their right hands, they slowly crept to my paper door. Unbeknown to them, I watched from afar. My sanctuary was the darkness at the opposite end of the hallway as they pushed the door in with a two hundred pound shoulder. In the yelling and confusion, shots rang out, followed by a mad dash back onto the landing. As luck would have it, the doughnuts caught up with them, and they gasped for breath while realizing they were in “no mans land”, with no plan. Kind of like two, gung ho soldiers who, through no fault of their own, find themselves surrounded, and standing in enemy territory with the rest of their company two hundred yards behind, digging in! Not only was their adrenalin flowing, but they hadn’t run that far in ten years and now they’re standing in the middle of a mine field. Mr. Macho had already left, and by way of their underwear, was waiting for them back with their buddies on the streets below. This was a real bad neighborhood, a real dark building, doors were starting to slowly open, and it was time to leave. The adrenalin that got them there was now hiding in their weak bladders. After staring into the whites of each others eyes they turned and slowly crept towards the stairs. Both still had their revolvers drawn, one looking up the stairwell while the other looked down as they hugged the wall while descending the dark, almost black exit. The creaking steps gave away their retreat as the staircase led them towards the safety of the streets. They intermittently looked at each other’s fear and without muttering one word, agreed they did their part for the neighborhood.
EXT: STREETS IN FRONT OF HOTEL
BULB BOYS
The 'Bulb Boys' had shown up. "The Gazette" was usually the first on the job. As the two doughnut boys flew down the brick staircase that led to the hotel door, the flashing bulbs were waiting for their landing on the sidewalk. In their blindness they almost lost their footing while trying to look important. "What was all that shooting about?" (yelled one of the reporters). The two cops pushing their way through the lenses, scowled as one blurted out "he got away!"
INT: ROOM/COUCH
JIMMY
(talking to himself)
The bastards shot my couch twice, (evidenced by ancient cotton protruding from the cushions and the smell of gun powder on my favorite pillow.) "He got away, they'll tell the duty officer back at the station..he got away! The duty officer will turn to them in his calm, tired, manner, and ask "who got away?" and "why the hell were the two of you shooting anyway?" "Fill out the paper work and I'll see you in a month! "Let's all pray some tramp doesn't come forward to sue us for our badges!"
INT: ROOM
JIMMY
After a couple of shots of vinegar, I lay back on my
deceased couch and with anticipation