working title

SCREEN BLACK

PAUL (V.O.)
Everybody always asks about the baby. What happened to the baby?

FADE IN:

INT. DINING ROOM - CIRCA 1925 - DUSK

PAUL sits directly opposite EMILY while nursing a tumbler of straight whiskey. They
both stare vacantly across a white tablecloth.


Each looks defeated by life; PAUL is in his late 40's, attractive at twenty paces, greying at the temples with eye sockets whittled by alcohol and the hands of a clock ; and EMILY, brunette hair in an unkempt bun, a frayed floral housecoat that has seen better days.
Medium shot over her shoulder facing a sweaty and disheveled PAUL.

PAUL (Breaks the silence by hitting table with fist)
Dammit, Em. That's just what I've been trying to tell you, but you won't keep your mouth shut long enough to hear me out.
(Calming down)
Now, the way I see it the two of us, we've been headed to this spot for a long time. Like them trains you stare at out the window all the time, you know. Them ones headed up to Blue Mound, and Wichita. That's what it's like. Like them little lights passing through to someplace better, filled up with all the happy faces pressed up against the glass feeling sorry for the rest of us standing still here on the ground. Hell, I even tried to warn you. God knows the whistle's been blowing ever since you let your sister move in here last summer. But you just wouldn't listen.
(Long pause)
On top of that, you had to go and get.... (loses thought, takes a drink) shit. How many rocks can you pile on a man until his back caves in? I can't even sign for flour down there at Tink's no more. How long has it been? 10 months? A year? Way before you let JOAN move in here.
Look. It really was nothing. Just a sometimes thing. Really. For chris-sakes you were on your back most days, and... and, hell. I didn't have no choice. The mill ain't hiring, and here comes another bird to feed. Two birds... hah. Imagine that. You can't buy milk with kindness. So yeah. I done some things that make me not too proud. Some things, well, you were right about, but not everything. I swear on a hundred bibles.
(Breaks down into tears)
Shit, Em. It would've been alright if she had just gone to Lawrence. I told her, 'just go to Lawrence.' Lots of girls do. Can't you see? We couldn't afford another.... we just couldn't. I told her 'just go to Lawrence.' (sobbing) And I meant that. Really, I did. I never wanted to hurt you -- or JO. I guess life just sort of rubbed me smooth, and I didn't have no choice.
And a man's gotta have choices, or he'll make decisions out of nothing.

A BABY cries from an upstairs room, and PAUL looks up at the ceiling. A faint rust-colored stain pools on the white paint above the dining table. PAUL closes his eyes, regaining his composure and slowly backs his chair away from the table. We see EMILY for the first time with the same vacant stare as she seems to gurgle, slumping headfirst onto the table.

View from above as the white tablecloth becomes a tableaux of red surrounding EMILY.

PAUL takes a final swig and puts down his drink, and slowly heads to the foot of the staircase. He turns to view the room before ascending into the dark and the sounds of a crying BABY.

FADE TO BLACK

amy vanderbilt, chapter 41, page 449, verse 2

If an invitation which has been extended cannot be met or is broken, the best method is to phone or telegraph the hostess immediately and explain the circumstances. (Such excuses to the White House are written or telegraphed -- see "The New Resident in Washington.") The usual social form is: (Telegram) MR. AND MRS. HAROLD CLARK STRAGHAN REGRET THAT MR. STRAGHAN'S ILLNESS MAKES IT IMPOSSIBLE FOR THEM TO KEEP THE ENGAGEMENT WITH DR. AND MRS. PRESCOTT ON MAY SEVENTH.

Amen.

notes from a laptop

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I have broken several cardinal vows to never own a cell phone... to never own a laptop... and to never, ever be seen in the public square furiously typing away on said laptop. Yet here I sit at Flightpath Coffehouse in the middle of a freak snowstorm, confessing my sins to God, the internet, and Homeland Security.
I expect the Creator to text me at any minute and summon me to his waiting room.
This was no easy decision to cut the ethernet apron strings, mind you. After years of decisive indecision, I was compelled to join the portable computer revolution last Thursday, although as I understand, that train left the station the previous Tuesday. Alternately, I found myself attracted and repelled by the mysteries of WiFi; sneaking furtive glances at the denizens of fixed and glazed eyeballs all about me reflecting back their glowing computer screens.
What was this mysterious draw? The strangely whirring siren song of hard drives that beckoned wary sailors to their deaths, strewn about on the rocks of disney.com, irs.gov, and barnyardsex.net alike.
I needed to fulfill a proclivity to connect with friends in Cleveland or Shanghai at any given moment. I was desperate to feed my addiction, and Dell was more than happy to feed the monkey on my back for a small stipend (and handling charge.)
Upon powering up my laptop for the first time, it was as if Pharos had gently taken my hand and was guiding my ship to safe harbor. No lighthouse in Alexandria had ever shone brighter nor provided as much comfort as that LCD screen before me.
I know what you are thinking. The thought crossed my mind several times as well. "Won't his writing suffer, what with all the distractions of cappuccino machines, Stravinsky, and frat boys?" I was most certainly faced with the same dilemma. Like any sensible person, I pondered, "what would Dorothy Parker do?" I began to recall that once, when faced with an impending deadline that couldn't possibly be met, she simply filled an entire page of the New York Times theater review with empty space and two words.... "Pencil broke."
Somehow, "Access Denied," or "Forbidden Error 403," just wouldn't do. I was flappably undeterred.
So there you have it in an eggshell. Or handbasket, or what have you. Now you have all been brought up to speed (54Mbps, mind you), and my shameful lapse in self control has been exposed for the ridicule and condemnation that it deserves.
Feel free to cast stones and ask questions later. Just a small reminder that before you log off of your own iBook, but be sure to alert me of any hotspots in the 78723 zipcode that may have somehow eluded me.
Meet me there at 9pm, and we'll sit side-by-side in silence, blissfully surfing reality away.