Complete Short Fiction, page 74
It’s bad.
ERIC
(shrugs)
Yeah, that’s what they told me.
So, dinner. What do you say?
JANICE
I don’t think it’s a good idea,
Eric.
ERIC
Just talk. Catch up. I . . . really
feel like I need to.
JANICE
You don’t want to catch up, Eric.
It’s better to leave things alone.
ERIC
C’mon . . . Jan-Jan
JANICE looks at him for a long moment, both touched and irritated by the use of the name. She rolls her eyes like a schoolgirl.
JANICE
Asshole.
FADE TO: EXT.—LAS LOMAS CONVALESCENT HOSPITAL—DAY
It’s a quiet, decent place. ERIC pulls into the parking lot.
INT.—HOSPITAL
ERIC walks down the hallway, past various geriatrics in wheelchairs and one young man twisted with palsy. As ERIC’s gaze sweeps across the young man’s face, a voice speaks behind him.
OLD WOMAN
Stop! Stop!
He turns. A scowling OLD WOMAN in a wheelchair is following him.
OLD WOMAN
It’s all a mistake! Call my
mother!
ERIC walks on a little faster than before.
CUT TO: INT.—HOSPITAL LOUNGE
The room is filled with old people on benches, in chairs, mostly staring into space. ERIC is talking with a NURSE in the lounge doorway. She points toward the corner. As ERIC approaches, looking around, he doesn’t see TOPHER until the last moment—then a look of SHOCK runs across his face.
FLASH CUT TO: TOPHER as a teenager in 1976, handsome, blonde, surfer-ish, a shit-eating grin on his face as he lounges on a couch.
YOUNG TOPHER
Eric, my man! Have I got
something for you . . .
CUT TO: TOPHER NOW, in his wheelchair. He is startlingly grotesque, hairless and hunched, but his SKIN is the worst part—a crusty brown SHELL over his whole body, as though he’s covered with dried mud. He sits as stiff as if paralyzed. Two pale blue eyes peer out of the masklike face.
ERIC
(trying to cover his shock)
Topher, man. Long time. Long
time . . . I’m sorry I haven’t been
to see you in a while. Life, man,
it’s just . . . you know.
A horrible silence. TOPHER peers outward, not even looking at ERIC.
ERIC (cont.)
I never . . . I never stop being
sorry, man. It was just so
screwed up. You . . . we never
thought . . .
NURSE
(appearing over his shoulder)
Is everything all right?
ERIC suddenly gets up and lurches toward the door.
CLOSE-UP: TOPHER’S FACE, staring at nothing.
In the doorway, the NURSE nods understandingly.
NURSE
It’s very disturbing if you
haven’t seen it before.
ERIC
(still in shock)
It’s been years . . .
NURSE
It’s come on very badly lately.
Nobody knows what it is. It’s
flexible at the joints, though,
when he moves. When we
move him, that is—he doesn’t
do anything himself, doesn’t
talk . . . The skin tissue is
unusual—hard and brittle,
like . . . what is it insects make?
A chrysalis?
(she looks at ERIC)
I’m sorry, am I upsetting you?
Is he a relative?
ERIC
(shaking his head)
High school friend . . .
FADE TO: EXT.—RURAL ROAD—DAY, MINUTES LATER
ERIC is driving, face troubled. He fumbles for a tape and pushes it into the player. Something contemporary begins to fill the car as we CUT TO:
INT.—HOSPITAL—SAME TIME
CLOSE-UP on TOPHER’s strange face. The eyes blink for the first time, slow-motion, as we CUT TO:
INT.—REAL-ESTATE OFFICE—SAME TIME
JANICE, phone against her ear, is looking for something on top of her desk, holding a styrofoam cup of coffee in her hand.
JANICE
. . . I think they’re looking for
something a bit less pricey . . .
She looks at the coffee, which is suddenly black as ink. There is black on her hand, too, and smeared up her arm. She drops the black liquid to the floor, but her desk is covered in black smears too, and it’s all over her legs and skirt and chair. She screams and leaps up, rubbing frantically at herself as we CUT TO:
TOPHER’S EYES: Another SLOW BLINK
INT.—ERIC’S CAR
The contemporary music abruptly twists sideways into the drum-and-screams intro of the Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil”. Eric stares at the tape player, starts to pop the tape, then hears:
YOUNG TOPHER
Hook a right, man—time we
got back to your place.
The high-school TOPHER is sitting in the passenger seat, grinning, thumb pointing down a side road. ERIC gasps and hits the brakes. The car fishtails to a stop on the side of the road. ERIC stares. The passenger seat is EMPTY. The music is back to normal.
CUT TO: INT.—REAL ESTATE OFFICE
JANICE is standing up, perfectly clean, her desk clean too, everything fine but for the coffee she spilled on the floor. All her co-workers are STARING at her as we CUT TO:
EXT.—GAS STATION—MINUTES LATER
ERIC has pulled his car into a small service station. The CASHIER, a fifty-something skinny guy with a beard and ponytail wanders out. ERIC gets out and leans against the car, stunned.
CASHIER
It’s self-serve. Hey, you feel all
right?
ERIC
Yeah, I guess so.
CASHIER
We got a bathroom if you need
to puke or something.
ERIC
No, I . . . I think I just . . . had a
flashback.
CASHIER
(chortles)
I know about that shit, man.
Between acid and that Post
Traumatic Stress shit, I’ve had
so many of them things I prolly
spend more time in the old days
than I do in the right-now . . .
ERIC is looking back over the fields and through the trees as we DISSOLVE TO:
INT.—RESTAURANT—NIGHT
ERIC and JANICE eating dinner in an upscale Mexican restaurant. She has dolled up a bit, but has a sweater over her shoulders as though unwilling to relax too much. Neither is eating very heartily.
ERIC
. . . Had no idea. Oh my God, he
looks like . . . like . . .
JANICE
Like a monster. I know.
ERIC
It really got to me. I kind of
freaked out on the ride back.
JANICE looks troubled, but also angry.
JANICE
Yeah. Tension and guilt will do
that to you.
ERIC
Are you saying I should feel
guilty, Janice? I do. Of course I
do. But it’s not all my fault.
JANICE
You sure left town like you
thought it was.
(She has been fidgeting with her
silverware. She waves a waiter over.)
Could you please give me a
clean fork, if it’s not too much
to ask? This fork is dirty. It’s
disgusting.
The waiter leaves. ERIC looks at her. She stares defiantly back.
JANICE (cont.)
Well, you did, didn’t you?
ERIC
What did you want me to do?
I had a scholarship that fall,
remember? Did you want me
not to go to UCLA?
JANICE
To become a journalist and save
the world.
ERIC
To become a journalist, yeah,
even if I didn’t know it then.
Should I have just stayed?
JANICE
Of course not. Then you would
have had to break up with me
face to face.
ERIC
C’mon—it was as much your
idea as mine, wasn’t it?
JANICE
Maybe. But I didn’t get to leave.
I had to go to that high school
for two years. How do you
think that felt? To have people
pointing at me, whispering
about me . . .?
ERIC
If you want me to say I’m sorry,
Janice, I will. I’m sorry.
(He toys with his food.)
Didn’t you have anyone else to
talk to? What about Brent?
JANICE
Oh, sure, Brent. I hardly saw
him. He got all weird—started
reading like Tibetan Buddhism
and stuff.
ERIC
Brent? Reading books?
JANICE
He’s a lot different, Eric.
You’d hardly know him. He’s
done really well, actually. He
lost a lot of weight, married
some ex-model, owned his
own advertising agency in Los
Angeles for a while, then sold
out and moved back here . . .
ERIC
Advertising agency? Oh,
shit, he wasn’t the Zenger in
Zenger-Kimball, was he?
That’s too weird.
JANICE
Like I said, you wouldn’t
recognize him . . .
DISSOLVE TO:
INT.—BRENT’S HOUSE—SAME TIM
The ADULT BRENT ZENGER looks fit and successful—nice haircut, buff body, expensive casual clothes. His wife TRACY and daughter JOANIE look up from the couch where they’re watching television. BRENT heads for the closet to hang up his coat.
BRENT
The man is home.
TRACY
Hi.
JOANIE
Hi, daddy. The class hamster
had babies.
BRENT
I’d love to hear about it after
I get myself one little, much-
deserved drink.
TRACY
You’re home late.
BRENT
Dinner with a client . . .
He reaches the closet and throws open the door, starts to hang up his coat, then sees there’s a light of some kind at the back of the closet. BRENT is suprised. He pushes through the coathangers and discovers a door on the back of the closet, where clearly none has ever been before. He steps through it and into an EXACT DUPLICATE of the living room he’s just left.
BRENT
What the hell . . .?
TRACY
(looking up in alarm)
Who are you? What are you
doing in here?
JOANIE
Mommy? Mommy!
BRENT
What are you talking about . . .?
TRACY
(pulling JOANIE backward toward
the phone)
I don’t know what you think
you’re doing, but I’m calling the
police. Don’t move!
JOANIE
(crying)
Who is that man, Mommy?
Terrified, stunned, BRENT takes a stumbling step backward and falls into the closet. After a confused moment, he fights his way out of darkness again.
TRACY
Brent? What on earth are you
doing? Do you need some help?
JOANIE
Daddy’s tangled up in the coats!
CLOSE UP—BRENT, pale and shaken, as we dissolve to:
EXT.—RESTAURANT PARKING LOT—NIGHT
JANICE and ERIC are walking through the lot. She has her sweater pulled tight around her shoulders.
ERIC
. . . And she put all my stuff in
boxes and put them out on
the sidewalk with—you know
those label guns? With a label
on each one reading “property
of shit head”. Which is how I
became single again.
(a beat)
Hey, I thought you would have
enjoyed hearing about my
hopeless love life.
JANICE
Oh, Eric, I never wished you
bad luck. Not really.
(a beat)
I’m sorry if . . . if I wasn’t very
good company tonight. I told
you this was a poor idea.
ERIC
I said I’m sorry about everything,
Janice. I really am, I . . . I was just
scared of the whole thing. You,
life, what happened . . .
They have stopped beside his car.
JANICE
I accept the apology. I did
stupid things too. Let’s just say
goodnight and maybe we can
be friends again. That would be
something, wouldn’t it? After
all this time?
ERIC
It sure would.
He reaches out and takes her hand, holding it awkwardly for a moment—he’s trying to find a way to pull her closer but she’s quietly resisting. Abruptly he drops her hand and walks to his car.
JANICE
Eric?
ERIC
Hang on a second.
He fumbles around, then pops a tape into the player and leaves the door open as he walks back. The quiet intro to Traffic’s “Low Spark of High Heeled Boys” begins to play.
JANICE
I know that.
ERIC
Of course you do. This is now
officially middle-aged-people’s-
music.
He suddenly takes her hand again, then pulls her toward him.
ERIC (cont.)
Remember slow dancing?
JANICE
The only kind you could do.
A casualty of the Disco
Invasion is what you were.
C’mon, Eric, stop.
ERIC
Just a dance. Better
than arguing. Come on.
JANICE allows herself to be drawn slowly into a dance.
JANICE
You do know you’re going back
to your motel alone, don’t you?
ERIC
All the more reason to be quiet
and let me enjoy this . . .
They circle across the parking lot, under the lights. A foursome walks past them and makes joking comments, but sweetly—it’s a nice moment. We dissolve slowly to:
EXT.—PIERSON HOUSE, 1976—NIGHT
Another quiet song rises up, supplanting the Traffic—it’s Roxy Music’s “In Every Dream Home A Heartache”. Five people are sitting on the roof of the house. It’s a summer evening, last rays of sunset just vanishing, and the lights of other houses are far on the other side of the orchard.
Five teenagers are sitting along the edge of the roof, passing a joint. YOUNG ERIC and YOUNG JANICE are pressed close. Chunky YOUNG BRENT, wearing cutoffs and deck shoes, is dangling his feet over the edge and taking his turn with the joint. KIMMY, a small girl with glasses, a hooded sweatshirt, and overalls sits a yard or so from him but close to YOUNG JANICE. YOUNG TOPHER sits against the chimney, swigging from a bottle of Bacardi.
YOUNG ERIC
Last night of summer.
YOUNG JANICE
Shut up. You’ll ruin it.
YOUNG BRENT
(inhaling deeply)
Nothing could ruin it but
running out of dope. I love this
song. Manzanera rocks so bad
on this solo that it isn’t funny.
YOUNG ERIC
The last night of the last
summer we’re all in high school
together. The night summer
vacation dies forever.
TOPHER
(reaching down to take the joint)
Oh, shit. Poetry alert!
Everbody laughs.
YOUNG ERIC
Okay, I’ll just shut up.
YOUNG JANICE
No, baby, you’re so sweet when
you talk. But just be quiet for a
little while, okay?
