The Place

Chapter 3-2

First Draft

(un-formatted)

Jan 12, 2008

WGA Registration no#

1247825

Copyright © 2008, 2019 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. All Rights Reserved. Published by Hobb’s End Books, a division of ACME Sprockets & Visions. Cover design Copyright © 2019 Wayne Kyle Spitzer. Please direct all inquiries to: HobbsEndBooks@yahoo.com

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ACT 1, SCENE 1

EXT. A MIGHTY RIVER. DAY.

Opening Image / Titles sequence. Aerial view rushing headlong over a winding Canadian river. Camera flies at dizzying speed over rapids, through sunlit mist. We hear an ecstatic, almost painful shriek which seems to tear through Nature itself. We hear the hum of some region beyond, which becomes a roar! Camera dips and climbs, swooping around river boulders, spiraling between crags, diving into the current and out again, like a dolphin. A base hum builds, inexorably, as we see a triangle-shaped spit of land appear—the point of which divides the river—draw near. The small island is crowded with willow bushes. We rush to a halt on a FIGURE IN A HOODED PARKA, standing immobile before the bushes with its back turned toward us. The figure begins to turn around....

SLAM-CUT TO:

ACT 1, SCENE 2

INT. NEW YORK SUBWAY. DAY.

The L-train rushes past. Cut briefly to conductor’s POV as the train roars down the track. ABRAHAM O’MALLY, 39, thin, pale, and clean-shaven, awakens as if from dream, still gripping the pole. He is wedged between other commuters. A subway beggar is pleading...

SUBWAY BEGGAR:

Ladies and gentlemen, please, anything would help.

I am a victim of identity theft and starving. Also I

have difficulty breathing due to emphysema...

ABE looks past the man at a beautiful young woman in a long, black coat, seated at the front of the car. She swipes the hair out of her eyes as she reads her magazine. A small flower is tucked above her ear. Another train swoops close outside the window, mesmerizing ABE with its blur of fluorescent faces. He looks at his watch as the conductor calls the next stop. As he gathers his briefcase and disembarks, we hear the beggar continue...

SUBWAY BEGGAR:

Ladies and gentlemen, please. I am both starving

and suffocating...

Out on the platform ABE pauses before a street musician, who is sitting cross-legged on a small rug, playing Pan Pipes. ABE looks down at him almost adoringly, pale-blue eyes sparkling. He lays a bill in the basket and hustles off. As the L-train leaves yet another train blasts past on the opposite side of the platform.

ACT 1, SCENE 3

EXT. NEW YORK CITY. DAY.

ABE moves down the packed sidewalk, turning his shoulders to part the crowd. He glimpses the woman in black, ahead of him, about to cross the street, and is so compelled by her that he steps right in front of a NYC bus—is drawn back by a stranger.

STRANGER:

Jesus, man! Pay attention!

He glimpses her once more after the bus passes, then she is swallowed by the crowd.

ABE emerges from the rotating glass door into the lobby of Macmillan’s New York Register and hustles for the elevator, but misses it. He glances at his watch. He notices a large figure standing in front of the gas fireplace by the waterfall; the figure is wearing a parka with the hood down and has his back to him. There is a briefcase by his feet. The figure also looks at his watch.

The elevator chimes and its doors roll open. ABE steps in, not realizing how crowded it is. He bumbles into a co-worker who spills piping hot coffee on him. Nursing the burn, he sees the figure by the fire turn—as the elevator doors close.

Squeezed amongst his co-workers, ABE watches the glowing numbers. A woman talks into her cell phone.

WOMAN WITH CELL-PHONE:

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well it was the wrong color

and the wrong brand. We had to drive all the

way back—huh? Yeah, we got lost. Isn’t that

awful? All that effort in precisely the wrong

direction!

ABE nearly leaps from the elevator as its doors open, and quickly shuffles to the men’s room. He rolls up his sleeves and pours cold water on the burn. He lingers a moment over the sink, grateful for the solitude. The face in the mirror is gaunt, white, almost sickly.

He hurries to his cubicle. His editor, a stern African-American named T.S. JOSHI, rolls back in his chair as he passes.

JOSHI:

That you, O’Malley?

ABE settles into his cubicle, which is crowded with potted plants as well as stacks of paperwork. The plants don’t seem to be doing very well. The cubicle’s walls are covered in journalism awards, as well as photos from various canoeing trips. Abraham is much younger in the pictures, 17 in some, 22 in others. There is another man in the pictures as well, scarcely older. He has scarcely had a chance to sit down when a co-worker brings in another stack of paperwork.

CO-WORKER:

I’ll just...put these on the floor.

ABE logs onto his computer and gets the “You’ve got mail” alert. There is a picture of himself, about 18, at the Senior Prom; standing next to him is a stunning woman of Asian heritage. His editor is at the door before he can check his email.

JOSHI:

Sorry about the title change. And the quote

cut. Had to fit a sidebar.

ABE:

It’s okay. Your paper.

JOSHI:

It’s Time-Warner’s paper. I just work here,

like you.

(looks at his watch)

15 minutes. Shall we say...my place?

JOSHI turns to go, pauses, holds up some copy.

JOSHI:

‘Spirals We Cannot Make?’

(throws up his hands)

ABE opens his email, finds a message waiting from a canoe2@yahoodotcom. He freezes. When at last he clicks on it, it reads: “Go with the flow. Silence is golden.”

ACT 1, SCENE 4

INT. JOSHI’S OFFICE. DAY.

ABE enters JOSHI’s office, and immediately freezes. There is someone in the room besides them: a biggish man, wearing boots, blue-jeans, and a flannel shirt. He is seated half on the window sill, looking out, so that we cannot see his face. ABE notices that the chair in front of JOSHI’s desk has a nylon parka with fur-lined hood thrown over it. He also notices that JOSHI has a file out, a thick one, and is thumbing through it. There are forms and brochures lying out on his desk.

JOSHI:

Come in and have a seat, Abe.

ABE looks at the free chair, alone against the wall. He sits down, tentatively. He is white as a wraith. JOSHI begins reading from ABE’s employee file: his tardies, the no-shows, the missed deadlines, the length over-runs, etc. His overall assessment is grim.

JOSHI:

Abe, you’re a brilliant writer, and a prolific reporter.

But, and it beats me how else to say this...

Outside the window, sky-scrapers loom.

JOSHI:

Look...Abe. See those skyscrapers out there?

ABE:

(altering his voice)

Why, yessuh, I do. Faith holds those buildings

up, don’t it? And straight lines and rules and

structural steel.

(reverts to normal)

Look, if I’m canned then can me, just spare me

the Richard Wright grandiloquence....

JOSHI flashes him a stern look. The stranger at the window tries to suppress a chuckle. ABE looks at him angrily.

ABE:

This is funny to you?

The big man turns around. ABE does a double-take before recognizing him.

BIG MAN:

A little, I confess. If I were you...I’d go with the

flow. Silence is golden, you know. Even in labor

relations.

ABE can only look on, stunned.

JOSHI seems at once alarmed and charmed by the big man’s gravitas.

JOSHI:

Abraham, meet SWEDEN MURDOCH. He runs

Centaur Excursions, out of Canada.

ABE and SWEDEN shake hands; the hand of the latter easily dwarfs the former. The men’s eyes say much that isn’t verbalized. Once everyone is seated JOSHI explains that SWEDEN conducts corporate challenge excursions out of his headquarters in Alberta, and that the Register has contracted with him to offer teamwork and motivational training for its employees, “...all of whom need it. Some more than others.” He then asks SWEDEN to go into more detail, which the man does, with gusto, explaining how the excursions operate.

SWEDEN:

(wrapping up)

...designed to build confidence and encourage

hyper-focus. To inspire teamwork, basically.

ABE:

Sounds swell! When do we go? And who are

my team-mates?

JOSHI:

No team-mates, not on this first one. It’ll be

just you...and SWEDEN.

ABE:

Because I’m in that bad of shape?

JOSHI:

Because you’re not a team-player—no b****y river-

run’s going to change that. Because my thankless job

is to still sell newspapers to people who can get every-

thing off the Internet for free. Because the corporate

guys want better productivity and the health insurance

discount. Because I want a story—a big one—that will

have to be published in installments because you write

in big, looping spirals (spins his arms wildly), which

people seem to like, especially those people who hand

out the little gold bowling trophy things. This ultimately

means I get to spend more time on the golf course, and

fuck the circulation. And because you’re in that bad of

shape. I mean, look at you.

ABE:

And...if I turn it down?

JOSHI takes the thick file and tosses it into an entire box labeled ‘AB.’

JOSHI:

Then I will give it to your replacement. One who

knows how to write...horizontally? Between the

little blue lines?

––––––––