Wednesday, May 27, 2015

That Girl on the Corner with the Sign


            Wanda grabbed a handful of greasy fries from the brown paper bag and shoved them into her mouth. She took a sip from a bucket of diet soda. She lit a menthol cigarette. She took a long drag. She ashed the butt into an empty cardboard box that had previously housed a double cheeseburger with bacon. She raised the bucket for another sip. The car in front of her came to a sudden stop. She slammed on her breaks. She lost control of the bucket. Diet soda went everywhere.
            She sat at the red light. She waited. The cars moved. Then they stopped again. She noticed a girl standing on the corner. The girl was dressed in clothes that were fashionable decades ago. The left side of her head was shaved. Her skin was covered in tattoos. She held a cardboard sign. The sign was covered in black marker. It read:

Homeless and
Pregnant
Anything Help$
God Bless
           
Wanda eyed the girl up and down. She noticed her filthy bare feet. She noticed rips in her jeans. She noticed a bump in her belly. Poor thing she thought must be three months pregnant. Wanda searched through her purse. She found the last two dollars to her name.
The light turned green. The cars moved. Wanda stopped at the corner. Her 1993 Toyota Camry held up the traffic behind it. Wanda rolled down her window. She held out the money. “Here you are sweet thing.”
“God bless you.” The girl took the two dollars. She watched the Camry drive through the intersection. She watched the cars behind it get caught at the red light.
The girl turned her back to the cars. She pulled a wad of money out of her bra. She added the two dollars. She counted the wad. She smiled. Her daily quota had been met.
She dashed across the intersection. She unlocked her fixed-geared bicycle from a STOP sign. She pedaled through downtown. She crossed the Hawthorne Bridge. She followed a bike boulevard to Division Street. She pulled up to a house in a very trendy neighborhood. She carried her bike inside.
Her roommates sat on the couch. They were dressed much like her. They drank tall cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. They smoked American Spirit cigarettes. They smoked marijuana out of elaborate glass pipes. The girl threw her cardboard sign on the coffee table. It covered another cardboard sign that read:

Homeless
Veteran
Anything Helps
God Bless
420

“How much did you get?” One of her roommates asked.
“A hundred and twenty.” The girl grabbed a cigarette and lit it.
“How do you always make so much?”
The girl pulled a small pillow from under her shirt.
“It isn’t fair!” her roommate complained.
“What’s the plan for tonight?” Another roommate asked.
“Lonesome Picnic is playing the Doug Fir at nine.” The girl blew a ring of smoke.
“I love Lonesome Picnic,” the roommate said. “But it’s almost nine. How long will it take you to get ready?”
The girl smiled. “How long does it take to put on a pair of black rimmed glasses and a fedora?”
They all laughed.





Monday, May 18, 2015

Jackie O


            Why did I decide to become a spy?
            She could have been anything she wanted to be. Anything. There were no restrictions. And yet, she decided to become a spy. At first, she had to admit, it sounded like a world of excitement. Intrigue. Danger. But then she quickly realized it wasn’t like the movies. Sure, she got to engage with some of the most powerful and famous people in the world, but most of the time it was merely fancy dinner parties, or dreadfully boring ceremonies, both occupied by phonies. Phonies like her. She learned that a typical spy’s career consisted of just one major assignment. And that was it. One and done. Some assignments took days. Others months. She had been working on her's for years. And now she had been given the order to bring it to an end. Everything she had been working for would be achieved within the next minute.
            He doesn’t have the slightest idea.
            She sits in the limousine as it takes a right on Houston, around Dealey Plaza, before swinging a left on Elm. She smiles her beautiful smile. She waves her tiny hand. She thinks about the man sitting to her right. She tries to make sense of what is about to happen. She tries to justify what she is about to do.
            He did sleep with that slut, Marilyn.
            Even if their marriage was a sham. Even if she never really loved him. She convinces herself that adultery is reason enough. Even if they did create life together. The first sound of gunfire comes from behind. Loud cracks from the book depository. Blanks. Decoys. She shoves the syringe into her husband’s gut and releases the poison. His upper body goes limp. The next sound of gunfire comes from the side. Loud cracks from the grassy knoll. More blanks. More decoys. Governor Connally hands her the pistol. She raises the barrel to her husband’s head. She raises it like she’s practiced a thousand times before. She whispers in her husband’s ear: “I’m sorry, my love.” She pulls the trigger.
            Oh my God! I did it! I assassinated the President of the United States!
            She throws the gun out of the car. She throws it into the hands of a secret service agent. Another spy. She jumps onto the trunk of the car. She grabs chunks of grey matter. Brain. She grabs shards of white bone. Skull. She makes certain that no bullet fragments are left behind as evidence. She screams: “They’ve killed my husband! They’ve killed my husband!” She cries. Hysterically. She plays it perfectly. Nobody suspects a thing.
            I should have been an actress.

            

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

BREAK FAST SERVD ALL DAY (A Screenplay)



FADE IN:

INT. DIVE BAR – NIGHT

The room is empty except for JIMBO (30’s), who is standing behind the bar, cleaning glasses with a rag. The front door opens. Enter CARL (30’s), soaking wet. Thunder crashes as he closes the door. He takes a seat on a stool in front of Jimbo.

CARL
Where is everybody?

JIMBO
Where is everybody? What do you mean—where is everybody? It’s the goddamn storm of the century out there! The real question is: What the hell are you doing here?

CARL
I’m hungry. I want some breakfast.

JIMBO
Breakfast? It’s eleven o’clock at night…

CARL
Yes. Breakfast. Two eggs, over-easy, hash browns, rye toast, bacon, sausage, a half a grapefruit, and a Bloody Mary.

JIMBO
I’ll make you a Bloody Mary, but you’re fucking nuts if you think you’re getting any goddamn breakfast!

CARL
But the sign says, “Breakfast Served All Day”!

Carl points at a piece of cardboard behind the bar that reads “BREAK FAST SERVD ALL DAY” in thick black marker.

JIMBO
I don’t care what the sign says. I’m not
firing up the grill to cook you breakfast at eleven o’clock at night.

CARL
But that’s false advertising!

JIMBO
False advertising? How’s this for false advertising?

Jimbo grabs the cardboard sign, rips it in half, and discards it beneath the bar. Where the cardboard was leaning, we now see a small safe with a combination lock. Thunder crashes as the front door opens. A masked BANDIT enters, soaking wet, holding a small pistol in his right hand. He points it at Jimbo.

BANDIT
Money! Now!

JIMBO
(laughing)
All right, Bill. You got me. Good joke. You can put the gun down now.

BANDIT
I don’t know who the fuck Bill is, but you’ve got to the count of three to give me some fucking money! One…

JIMBO
Or what Bill? You’ll shoot me?

BANDIT
Quit calling me Bill!

JIMBO
Then what do you want to be called?

BANDIT
I don’t want to be called anything! I just want the fucking money!

JIMBO
Come on Bill, the jokes over. What do you want to drink?

BANDIT
I don’t want a fucking drink! And why the fuck do you keep calling me Bill?

CARL
Because it’s clearly you Bill. That mask aint foolin’ us. We can see it in your goddamn eyes. Aint nobody else got eyes like you. Why do you think you named your bar Bug Eyed Bill’s?

JIMBO
So, what’ll it be, Bill? The usual?

BANDIT
Wait just a second. You think I’m the guy who owns this fucking shit hole? That doesn’t even make sense! Why would somebody rob their own fucking business?

CARL
Where do we start? Gambling debts?

JIMBO
Cocaine habbit?

CARL
Alimony?

JIMBO
Child support?

CARL
Insurance fraud? I mean, the list goes on and on.

JIMBO
Listen Bill, I understand the urge.

BANDIT
I swear to God, if you call me Bill one more time I will shoot your friend in the fucking head.

The bandit swings his arm and points the gun at Carl.

JIMBO
Go ahead Bill, shoot him. See if I care.

CARL
Yeah Bill, shoot me.

BANDIT
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!

The bandit swings his arm back, once again pointing the pistol towards Jimbo.

BANDIT (CONT’D)
The safe! Open the goddamn fucking safe!

CARL
Okay Bill, now we’ve got you. If you don’t own the place, then how did you know the safe was there?

The bandit swings the pistol back towards Carl.

BANDIT
Are you serious? What do you mean, how do I know the safe is there? I can fucking see it, you moron!

The bandit swings the pistol back towards Jimbo.

BANDIT (CONT’D)
Now, open the fucking safe!

JIMBO
You know I don’t know the combination.

BANDIT
Ha! If I knew that you didn’t know the combination, then why would I ask you in the first place? That proves that I’m not Bill!

CARL
Unless you’re using reverse psychology…

BANDIT
That doesn’t even make any fucking sense! If I knew that you didn’t know, and then pretended to not know, even though you knew…you know what, fuck it, I’m dealing with fucking idiots! Just empty your fucking pockets!

The front door opens. Enter BUG EYED BILL (40’s), soaking wet. The door closes. Thunder crashes.

BILL
What the fuck is going on here?

The bandit swings his pistol towards Bill.

BANDIT
Now, who the fuck are you?

BILL
I’m fucking Bill! My names on the fucking sign outside! Who the fuck are you?

The bandit swings his gun towards Jimbo, then Carl.

BANDIT
Ha! I told you motherfuckers that I wasn’t Bill!

The bandit swings the gun back towards Bill.

BANDIT (CONT’D)
Now, you! Open the fucking safe!

BILL
Okay, okay, easy now. I’ll open the fucking safe.

Bill walks behind the bar and begins to work the combination.

BILL (CONT’D)
Hell of a fucking storm out there, ain’t it?

BANDIT
Just shut the fuck up and open the mother fuckin’ safe!

BILL
Okay, okay, was just tryin’ to make conversation. Here we go…

Bill turns the knob one last time and opens the door of the safe. He spins around with a gun in his hand.

BILL (CONT’D)
Now, get the FUCK out of my fucking bar!

BANDIT
All right, settle down, nobody needs to get hurt.

BILL
I’ll give you to the count of three to get the fuck out of my bar. One…

The bandit turns around and flees out the front door. Bill returns the gun and closes the safe. He walks around the bar and takes a seat next to Carl.

JIMBO
What are you doing here?

BILL
I was hungry. I felt like some breakfast.

CARL
(Smiling)
Breakfast!

JIMBO
Breakfast?

BILL
Yes. Breakfast. And, by the way, where the fuck is my sign?

FADE OUT:
THE END



Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Condiment Man



           Missy had been thinking about a cheeseburger all morning. On her lunch break, she rushed down four flights of stairs and briskly walked the three city blocks to a parking lot full of food carts. She grabbed a bacon cheeseburger from a wagon that claimed to have the “Best Burger in Town.” In order to make it back to work in time, she would have to eat on the run. She was crossing a busy intersection on Broadway as she pealed back the foil on her burger and discovered a dry bun. “God damn it!” she said out loud, to herself, in disgust, for she had specifically asked for extra ketchup. Her perfect lunch had been ruined.
But wait. What was that? A man on a bicycle was riding down the road, shouting enthusiastically. “Condiments!” he yelled. “Get your condiments! I got your mustard! I got your relish! I got your Mayo! I got your ketchup! Condiments! Get your condiments!”
Genius, Missy thought. The city was full of food carts, serving every type of cuisine possible, but nobody was selling condiments. She waved the man down. He sprinted over and did a power slide with his bicycle, his rear wheel stopping inches short of her high heels. The man’s bike had both a rear and a front basket full of squeeze bottles. On his upper body, he wore a vest with dozens of pockets filled with small packets. “What can I do you for, ma’am?” he asked with a smile.
“I just need some ketchup,” Missy said.
“Bottle for here, or a packet to go?”
“A bottle will be fine.”
The man pulled a red bottle from his front basket and handed it to Missy, who squirted its contents onto her burger. “What do I owe you,” she asked, as she handed it back.
“Nothing,” the man answered.
“Nothing? You mean to tell me that you ride around giving away condiments for free? But why?”
“Because if I don’t do it, then who will?”
“Who are you?” Missy asked in disbelief.
“I’m condiment man!” The man said as he took off on his bike. “Condiments!” he yelled as he rode away. “Get your condiments!”
The city soon fell in love with condiment man. No longer did its citizens have to live in fear of eating a dry, tasteless lunch. He was a savior to every hotdog without mustard, to every sandwich without mayonnaise, to every gyro without tzatziki. It seemed that he could do no wrong. Until one day…
Jesus had a bought a burrito from a local dive, but had forgotten to ask for extra salsa. Damn it! he thought, My lunch is ruined! But then came along Condiment Man. “Condiments! Get your condiments!”
Jesus waved him down. “I’ll take some salsa, please.”
“Don’t do salsa,” Condiment Man replied.
“What do you mean, you don’t do salsa?”
“Salsa’s not a condiment.”
“The hell it isn’t,” Jesus said.
This made Condiment Man angry. “Are you telling Condiment Man what constitutes a condiment?” He asked.
Jesus didn’t back down. “I guess I am,” he said. “A condiment is something that adds flavor to a food. Does salsa not add flavor to food?”
“Bacon adds flavor to food,” Condiment Man shot back. “Is bacon a condiment?”
“But I can’t dip something into bacon.”
“I dip cookies into milk,” Condiment Man said. “Does that make milk a condiment? Listen here buddy. I think I know a thing or two about condiments and salsa is not a condiment. Salsa is a food. Take out the onions and the peppers and the chopped up tomatoes, and what do you have?”
“Hot sauce?” Jesus answered.
“Which is a condiment,” Condiment Man said with pride. “Which I can gladly offer you.”
“This is discrimination!” Jesus yelled.
“I guess that’s a ‘no’ on the hot sauce,” Condiment Man said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
As Condiment Man rode away, Jesus pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. “Hola,” he spoke into the receiver. “Tenemos un problema.”
The following day, after Condiment Man saved a dry Philly Cheese Steak with some A1 sauce, he sped off down 6th Ave. He was crossing Broadway, through a green light, yelling “Condiments! Get your Condiments!” when an eighteen-wheeler broadsided him. The intersection exploded into a mosaic of colors—ketchup red, mustard yellow, mayo white. The truck came to a screeching halt. The scene looked like a Jackson Pollack painting with Condiment Man’s lifeless body as its centerpiece. Pedestrians looked on in horror. Children cried. Women screamed. The driver simply opened his door, hopped out of his cab, and walked away, up Broadway, past his rig, including the forty-foot trailer that had one word painted across its side: “SALSA.”