Tài liệu Writing the short film 3th - Part 49 docx

AMANDA (V.O.) My dearest Joshua. As always, I miss you with everything I am. EXT. AMANDA’S HOUSE—AFTERNOON Thomas sits on his trusty 1940 Schwinn Classic bicycle, his brown-bag lunch sits in the plastic basket hanging above the front tire. A speedometer and mileage counter are attached to the handlebars, and two “U.S. Postal” saddlebags hang from the seat. Thomas takes a bite out of his sandwich, his eyes never leaving Amanda’s front door. AMANDA (V.O.) Christmas is coming, as it tends to do each year, and I am still in solitude. This time of year holds no joy, only loneliness. Amanda stands on her front porch, completely unaware of Thomas’s watchful eyes. She is trying to hang a wreath on her door, but just can’t seem to get it. AMANDA Darn it! Thomas looks on with an aching love. Her frustration is not hers alone. He cringes as she tries . . . and fails. STEVE, another mailman, comes walking down the sidewalk. Thomas jumps at the sound of his voice. STEVE Hey, Tom. Whatchya doin’? Thomas quickly glances at Amanda. His foot kicks the pedal. THOMAS I was . . . was just eatin’ my sandwich, here. STEVE Awful far for lunch ain’t it? THOMAS I was . . . just, here, on the route. 326 Writing the Short Film App-B.qxd 9/27/04 6:02 PM Page 326 STEVE Aw yeah, I didn’t think you delivered here no more. THOMAS I, ah, yeah, I had myself transferred to the office. STEVE The office? Thomas starts the bike in motion. THOMAS It was good seeing you, Steve. Steve smiles uncertainly. STEVE Yeah, you too. Thomas makes like a tree. Amanda finally hangs her wreath and, with a last glance, walks inside and closes the door. The wreath hangs as a delicate symbol of Christmas, then falls to the ground with a loud SMASH. CUT TO: INT. DEAD LETTER OFFICE—AFTERNOON Thomas sits reading the last of Cyrano. The brown-bag lunch finished and crumpled in front of him. Chuck appears from the back of the room. He holds up a very tacky, see-through negligee. CHUCK Deb’s secret Santa gift. What do you think? Thomas looks up from his readings. THOMAS You bought that? CHUCK Naw, it was in the back. Package didn’t have a return address. Saved myself five bucks. Short Screenplays 327 App-B.qxd 9/27/04 6:02 PM Page 327 THOMAS I guess it’s the thought that counts. CHUCK Damn right. What’d you get for your ole’ lady? THOMAS Oh, I . . . I wouldn’t even know what to . . . She deserves more than I could give her. Chuck shoves his lacy gift in a drawer and begins to throw letters into their appointed boxes. CHUCK Still haven’t talked to her, huh? THOMAS Uh, not yet. Chuck faces Thomas. CHUCK Fupper, you gotta take the bull by the balls. He crumples the letter he is holding into a ball. CHUCK This Stevie Wonder, secret lover crap has gone on for much too long. THOMAS It’s still too early. CHUCK It’s been two years! She writes to her dead husband for God sakes; you can’t tell me she doesn’t need a friend. THOMAS I don’t want to rush it. Chuck shrugs his shoulders. 328 Writing the Short Film App-B.qxd 9/27/04 6:02 PM Page 328 CHUCK Hey, it’s your day at the track, but if you ask me, no one likes to bet on a horse that shows. The SOUND of Thomas’s bicycle. CUT TO: EXT. AMANDA’S HOUSE Thomas sits on his bike across the street straightening his bow tie. A suit that appears to be one size too small rests on his bony frame. A single daisy sits in his basket. THOMAS Hello, my name is Thomas Fupper. I’m a mailman at the . . . uh, post office, and I’ve been reading . . . He takes a deep breath, smoothes his eyebrows, grabs the flower, and dismounts his bike. EXT. AMANDA’S FRONT WALK Thomas approaches the cement walkway. THOMAS Hello, my name . . . is Thomas Fupper. I’ve been . . . I mean I work at the Dead Letter Office . . . Thomas’s footsteps falter. His last remaining words sink in, and he halts, his foot near the edge of the path. He stares as if seeing the house for the first time. Go! Go, Goddammit! Nothing. Thomas wilts, he can’t go through with it. He gingerly lays the daisy down on the cement slab of the walkway. He retraces his steps, a beaten man. Thomas speeds away just as Amanda rounds the corner and comes to her walkway. A daisy. She picks up the abandoned flower and looks around. No one. Must have fallen out of a bunch. She moves toward her house, cradling the flower. CUT TO: Short Screenplays 329 App-B.qxd 9/27/04 6:02 PM Page 329 INT. AMANDA’S HOUSE—NIGHT The daisy sits in a glass on Amanda’s T.V. dinner stand. She’s eating a Swanson frozen dinner “Beef Surprise.” The television blares some nonsensical movie of the week, in which Amanda is deeply involved. We PULL OUT to reveal a set of men’s clothing neatly laid out as if someone was sitting there. Beside the suit is a small child’s outfit, propped under the invisible man’s arm. It looks like a normal family at rest, minus the family. Amanda reaches over and takes the empty sleeve in her hand, as if taking the arm of a loved one. A distracted smile remains on her face. CUT TO: INT. THOMAS’S APARTMENT—NIGHT The dingy little room is lit by a single lightbulb hanging from the cracked ceiling. Thick, floral print wallpaper clings to the sheet rock. A Charlie Brown Christmas tree slouches in the corner. A picture of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing in the snow is taped to the wall. Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer laments from the television. Thomas sits in an overstuffed armchair. (The next sequence of shots will be done as we dolly behind Thomas’s head.) He raises a cup of cider to his lips. Drinks. Lowers the cup. Drinks again. The cup disappears from sight. He raises his hand and places a gun in his mouth. Christmas lights blink. The steel barrel knocks against his teeth. A tear rolls down his sallow cheek. Rudolph. Thomas yanks the gun out of his mouth and sinks down onto the orange shag rug. The gun slips from his fingers. GRAPHIC MATCH: INT. DEAD LETTER OFFICE—DAY A child’s drawing of Santa lying in a pool of blood. Below, in the hand writing of an eight-year-old, are the words: SANTA LIES. 330 Writing the Short Film App-B.qxd 9/27/04 6:02 PM Page 330 Chuck shakes his head as he examines it. CHUCK Merry Christmas. Jesus. Thomas sorts through hundreds of letters. Boss comes busting in. More letters, and he’s not pleased. BOSS I wish I was packing. If I was packing, I’d blow some heads clear off their necks. Thomas gingerly takes the sacks from his boss. Resigned to being unarmed, Boss sinks into a chair. BOSS At least it’s the last day of this holiday horseshit. CHUCK That’s more in the spirit, Boss. BOSS You can suck my spirit. Chuck drops his bag and faces Boss. CHUCK Now, did the good man from the North Pole person really piss in your Corn Flakes? Or does being an ass hole just die hard? BOSS You have a problem with me, Mr. Slates? CHUCK In fact I do. Tom and I were wondering why people like you find it necessary to puke on everybody else’s parade? BOSS This true, Fupper? Thomas looks up, dazed. Short Screenplays 331 App-B.qxd 9/27/04 6:02 PM Page 331 THOMAS Yeah, sure. CHUCK You’d think you were the only guy ever to get his ass kicked by a holiday. Boss stands up. BOSS You want to know the last time I ever celebrated Christmas? December 24, 1959. That’s the last time my mother ever brought home a stinking pair of orange jogging pants. Every year she’d come home from that stinkin’ pants factory and every year she’d have that brown paper package. Three pairs of extra-large orange jogging pants. You know what that does to a kid, havin’ to go back after every Christmas break wearin’ oversized, polyester orange pants. Let me tell you, it teaches you that Christmas good tidings don’t last much past the twenty-fifth of the month. Thomas and Chuck stand silent. BOSS So I decide I’m not gonna do it no more, not this year. She walks in with this big ham-hock-eatin’ grin on and hands me that package. I flung that orange bomb so hard across the room I could hear it tearin’ in mid-flight, “I’m not wearin’ those fuckin’ orange pants no more!!! I hate ‘em and I hate you!” Well my mother, she starts to cry and she doesn’t stop, in fact she keeps cryin’ right out the front door. I looked over at that torn brown package and there they were, pretty as could be, a pair of spankin’ new blue jeans. That’s the last time I ever saw the woman who gave me this rat trap of a life. See, I’m not pretending my life isn’t an empty piece of crap. So if it pleases you to eat your turkey and shove a couple of potatoes down your gizzard, then be my guest. Just leave me the fuck alone. 332 Writing the Short Film App-B.qxd 9/27/04 6:02 PM Page 332 . a pool of blood. Below, in the hand writing of an eight-year-old, are the words: SANTA LIES. 330 Writing the Short Film App-B.qxd 9/27/04 6:02 PM Page. a couple of potatoes down your gizzard, then be my guest. Just leave me the fuck alone. 332 Writing the Short Film App-B.qxd 9/27/04 6:02 PM Page 332