By Christopher D. Lake
Date: 6 March 2001
Scene One of my screenplay, 'Get Gone'
Scene I:
INT., Austin, Texas, bar, night.
Red (28) is sitting at the bar. He is tall and of slight build. His blonde hair looks disheveled and uncombed. He's wearing army surplus cargo pants and a blue tie-dye that looks like he made it himself back in high school. He has on scuffed cowboy boots.
June (28) walks over to bar and sits down next to Red. She's just finished her shift at the Zebra Lounge, a topless club next door. She's small--about six inches shorter than Red--and has a distinctly Mediterranean look. Her shoulder-length curly hair is now black, but the still-visible roots are auburn. She's earning barely any makeup.
The cigarette smoke is thick. 'Midnight in Montgomery' by Alan Jackson is playing on the jukebox.
June: God, who put on this shit?
Red: Show respect. It's the best dead-Hank song ever recorded. It's a whole subgenre in country.
June: So you're a kicker?
Red: I kick ass when I need to. What're you talkin' about?
June: Forget it. You're not from Austin, are you?
Red: Who IS from Austin?
June: Yeah. Good question.
Red: You're a dancer. I saw you dance the other night. You remember me?
June: No. I see lots of guys. Although [she looks at his clothes] I think I woulda remembered you.
Red: Hey! Don't diss the shirt. Made it with my sweetheart in high school.
June: Yeah. Looks it. [She laughs, but nicely.]
Red: What are you drinkin'?
June: Whatever does the job.
Red: [He grins.] Got something you wanna forget?
June: My entire existence.
Red: I'll drink to that. Have a Foster's. I'll get you one.
June: Thanks. Should mix nicely with the vodka shots I've been downing.
[Red asks the bartender for a Foster's. She brings it and places it on a coaster in front of June.]
Red: I hear Brooklyn in your accent. Where you from, anyway?
June: Let's see. You may regret asking that. First Far Rockaway, then Houston, then San Diego, then San Antonio, now here. I'm full Italian, though. That's probably what you hear.
Red: Yeah. Well, I'm Irish. We make better beer. Can't cook to save our eternal souls, though.
June: Food is overrated. Look, I KNOW you're no native Texan. What place do you call home, you no-good carpetbagger?
Red: I was born in New York. I'd rather talk about you. About how you dance.
June: I'm flattered. What were you doin' in a titty bar anyway?
Red: Maybe I knew you'd be there.
June: Oh God. Not that line.
Red: Maybe it's the truth.
June: So why Austin?
Red: Why not Austin? Austin is the edge, baby. Don't you know?
June: Fill me in.
Red: The low edge of the High Southwest! It's good and hot, good and corrupt, full of soulless yuppies who haven't got a fucking clue what they're in this world for. It's LA with cactus and worse traffic.
June: Hmm. Good way to put it. LA's in my screenplay.
Red: That's what you do?
June: So to speak. My two characters are fleeing to LA, pursued by all manner of demons and bullshit.
Red: Do they make it?
June: Don't know. Haven't gotten that far yet.
Red: Oh...
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