draft for script
Harry — Act 1, trouble writing, meets Shelly (Shelby) & Jacob (Miller) at the Tuscanoonee Bar & Grill off route 631, far ballast and beyond. All seated.
HARRY: I can’t seem to finish Act 3.
SHELLY: What are you afraid of?
HARRY: I don’t want it to end.
JAKE: Like waking up to your average day. [GETS UP, GOES TO DART BOARD, ENGAGES YOUNG, HOT FEMALE WITH FLORAL DRESS TO PLAY IN BG THROUGHOUT. SHE WILL BE ONE OF MANY BENEFICENT HITCHHIKERS TO CROSS THE TRAVELERS’ PATHS.]
HARRY: I mean, I know how it ends.
Shelly: And you don’t want to see it.
THROUGH THE DASHBOARD, HOT LIGHT, MID-DAY, CONVERTIBLE OPEN TO THE SUN AND WIND, TRAVELING FROM WATERING HOLE TO WATERING HOLE. JAKE DOCUMENTING FOR HIS THESIS (ON DEATH & THE DESERT), SHELLY AS PART OF HER CREATIVE DESTRUCTION RESEARCH PROJECT, FUNDED IN PART BY HER GENIUS McCARTHUR GRANT. And Harry who has a day job as a technical writer and has recently gotten some literary fame (and a decent deal of ass) since publishing three short novellas in a row. Very earthy, sexy, relevant, deadly.
He’d taken up his first discipline, playwriting, and had a swift rise to acclaim followed by the shadow of the abyss, from which he recovered, by marketing his soul. IT wasn’t the precise moment of unclarity–that felt like forgivable desperation when justified, or a bad, nasty night out where there was a blackout, and he was too old to black out, except now his whole life felt like one…