Make your introduction
Following up on last week’s article about How to Introduce a Character, I think it’s time for the second ever Scene Challenge. ![[Scene Challenge]](http://johnaugust.com/Assets/scene_challenge.png)
For the first one, Masturbating to Star Trek, you had to write an entire scene. This time, you simply have to introduce one character. And trust me, sometimes that’s harder.
Here’s all I’m giving you:
A man is picking up his clothes at a dry-cleaner.
The man is a principal character in your script, and this is the first time we’re meeting him. What’s his name? What’s the story? What’s the genre? You decide, to the degree it matters.
You’re welcome to write as much of the dry-cleaner scene as you want, but the focus is on the man’s introduction. The winning entry might be one sentence long. You may wish to consult the how-to for helpful suggestions.
Here are the rules:
- Post your entry in the comments thread of this article. Please don’t attempt fancy formatting. It usually just screws up the margins.
- All entries must be submitted by 8 a.m. PST on Saturday, April 28th, 2007. Remember that comments are sometimes held in moderation. Don’t submit twice. It will show up. Promise.
- I’ll pick a winner later that day.
- Winner receives bragging rights, which may be exchanged for a sense of self-worth. Liz used her win to make an appeal for meningitis vaccination.
And…begin.
Articles
April 25th, 2007 at 7:20 am
Joe Phillipo is an older gentleman dressed in a dapperly suit, but something is just a little bit off in his presentation. His tie is sloppily fastened, the knot the only untidy piece of his outfit. He is standing nervously in line, shifting from foot to foot, peering occasionally at the fine print on the receipt as if looking for directions. His eyes water when they fall on the name on the receipt – Angela Phillipo.
April 25th, 2007 at 7:45 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
RANDOLPH STOVER (45) is average in everyway except for his high opinion of himself. Dressed in a tailored suit that has tons of hanging threads, he points his nose to the ceiling, while chatting on a cell.
RANDOLPH (to phone)
Did you expect otherwise from those types of people?
He tosses a TICKET at the DRY CLEANER, but never makes eye contact.
RANDOLPH (to phone)
Oh, honey – you and your lost causes.
The Dry cleaner returns with Randolph’s clothes. He drops cash on the counter, takes his clothes, and heads for the exit.
RANDOLPH (to phone)
I–
The cell RINGS, exposing Randolph for the fraud he is. He jerks his head around and finally makes eye contact with the Dry Cleaner, who grins condescendingly.
Randolph high-tails it out of there.
April 25th, 2007 at 8:02 am
As Joe walked into the dry cleaners he was wearing nothing except for three socks and carrying a black attaché briefcase. His physique showed that, despite once having worked out, he had no time for the gym any more. His hair was greying and he had that smile that brings success in life. Be it for business or relationships.
DRY CLEANING LADY Morning Joe! What are you wearing today?
JOE It’s a Friday, let’s make it casual. Got a pair of my jeans and that shirt that says “Procrastinate now” on the front done?
April 25th, 2007 at 8:25 am
JERRY DONOVAN looked out of place as he walked into the dry-cleaners. His awkward gait and untucked shirt with large stains made the 24-year-old with the extra greasy black hair appear as if he’d just awaken from years of sleep.
April 25th, 2007 at 8:28 am
STANLEY HICKS throws a black garbage bag full of clothes down on the counter, while attempting to sneak a glance at Wei Chun’s cleavage as she bends over to fill out the sales slip.
His attention wanders to the “Cleaned and pressed for your success” sign hanging above him, and he frowns, feeling robbed of fruits of the implied promise. He looks down at himself, anything but cleaned and pressed. He is tired, much older looking than his forty years, and already unfashionably gray. A coffee stain mars his shirt, from a distance looking like a war decoration on his distended gut.
He shifts uncomfortably and musters a feeble smile as Wei hands him the slip, which he places carefully in his shirt pocket as if the promise of “success” may be rendered null and void by mishandling.
Wei returns the smile as he turns heel to leave, his old and ill fitting leather shoes emitting an embarrassing farting noise that he refuses to acknowledge.
April 25th, 2007 at 8:30 am
CAMERON STALLINGS, mid-thirties and muscular, pushes open the fingerprint covered glass door. He quickly checks every corner of the room with his eyes before stepping inside, one hand firmly grasping something that weighs down his pocket. Cameron’s face is bruised and cut and it takes every ounce of energy he has to push his body forward one foot at a time.
Wearing a fuzzy white terry cloth bathrobe with the Hilton’s name embroidered on the front in blue and mathing slippers, he limps up to the counter.
After checking the room once more for surprises, he takes his hand out of his pocket and puts a gun on the counter. He reaches back in his pocket and pulls out his orange ticket and hands it GUY BEHIND THE COUNTER, who cringes at the sight of the weapon.
CAMERON I need my clothes now.
April 25th, 2007 at 8:39 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS. DAY.
The room is a tiny corner storefront. Fake, yellowing lace curtains hang over the windows. High fashion photo spreads from lifestyle magazines have literally been torn out and hung on the walls with scotch tape. The door swings wide and strikes the little bell that hangs above it. In walks PAUL, a tall, lanky man in his late twenties wearing flip-flops, sweatpants, a wife-beater, and a very expensive watch. He has dark, greasy, chin length hair, and at least three days growth on his beard. He could easily be attractive if he tried. A little old lady hobbles up to the counter to greet him.
OLD LADY ahh, Mr. Dinatto-
PAUL its DiNardo. Where’s Aisling?
OLD LADY She doesn’t work Tuesday anymore. I have your suits though.
PAUL is clearly disappointed as the little old lady retrieves the plastic bag holding three two piece business suits, and hangs it on the rail next to the counter.
April 25th, 2007 at 9:06 am
INT. WRY CLEANERS – Dawn
It is just past opening time in this small store. The owner and sole worker, MAURICE, prepares for a day business by organizing items behind the counter. Outside can be heard the sound of sirens. The clothes we can see are decidedly futuristic, kind of like Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey meets Pinhead. The bells attached to the door jingle and Maurice looks up.
MAURICE Good morning John.
And then we see Officer JOHN GUNBLADE. A hard man, for hard times. His eyes are sunk and even his five o’clock shadow looks pissed off. John wears a beat up trench coat with what looks like some kind of body armor under it. A serious piece of gunsmithing can be seen under the coast as well. Maurice grins broadly.
MAURICE (con’t) Be just a second there for your clothes.
Maurice disappears into the back. John watches him disappear into the reams of clothes and washers.
MAURICE (con’t) Saw you on the early news this morning, looked like quite the shoot out you and your boys were having over there on the docks. Yessir, vicious stuff. The woman on the news there…
Maurice re-emerges with a bag of laundry which he hands over to Officer Gunblade.
MAURICE (con’t) She said you managed to chase the creature into the water, and possibly mortally wound the thing. I don’t believe it though, not myself. A murdering monster like that, well, you gotta be sure that’s dead. But I mean, I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.
John rummages through the bag, taking stock, making sure it’s all there.
MAURICE I remember the last time you saved the city, sure enough. Got that tentacled serial killing dog-faced man. I remember. It’d kidnapped your wife at the time. Only managed to rescue her at the last minute, am I right? Not married now though, are you. In fact, been awhile since there were any clothes that a woman wore in your bag there. Well, I bet that whole thing left some pretty deep scars. Sure enough-
JOHN It’s not all here.
MAURICE oh?
JOHN No.
Maurice raises his eyebrows. Innocent, almost cherubic.
MAURICE Well, what’s missing, officer?
JOHN You know what.
Maurice breaks into a broad grin. He reaches down behind the counter and pulls out a small woman’s thong with a Judge Dredd symbol emblazoned on the front.
MAURICE You must mean these.
John snatches them from Maurice hand, stuffing them guiltily into his bag. Maurice’s smile grows impossibly big.
MAURICE Must’ve fallen out, you know? Have to wash those separately, wouldn’t want them shrinking on you.
JOHN You’re an asshole maurice.
April 25th, 2007 at 9:13 am
Title: Unforeseen Consequences Genre: Thriller
INT. DRY CLEANER – LATE NIGHT
A bloody hand hastily taps the bell on the counter several times.
WOMAN (O.S.) Sorry, we are closed!
The hand belongs to a naked man around forty with a well trained body covered in bruises and cuts. He taps the bell again several times.
MAN Jane, it’s me, Frank! I think I need to pick up the suit a little earlier than planned!
JANE walks in from the back and as she sees FRANK she covers her mouth with her hands in utter disbelief. Blood streams down his forehead, splitting his handsome face in half. He doesn’t seem to be in pain but very focused and determined.
FRANK Don’t ask. Just hand me my stuff. The gun under the counter, too.
Jane hurries to the back. Jack looks down and notices himself still wearing one dirty sock. He takes it off and puts it on the counter.
FRANK And I got some laundry!
April 25th, 2007 at 9:48 am
WENDELL MERKIN, 34, doughy, opens his billfold and pulls out a pristine CLAIM TICKET, hands it to the CLERK who immediately disappears into the jungle of plastic-covered clothing.
Wendell carefully replaces his wallet when he notices a slight WRINKLE in his slacks. He scans the rest of his pants, then shirt. He finds more “imperfections”.
He checks his surroundings. No one around. So, he proceeds to strip off the offending clothing.
The clerk returns with his freshly-pressed garments, pauses at the sight of a half-naked Wendell. Wendell grabs the clothes and re-dresses himself in them. He tosses the worn clothes on the counter.
The clerk robotically writes a new claim ticket for Wendell, confusion lingering on her face. She hands the new ticket to Wendell, who places it neatly into his billfold. He brushes himself off and regards his reflection in the glass doors before exiting.
April 25th, 2007 at 9:57 am
INT COMMERCIAL LAUNDRY/DRY-CLEANER’S – DAY
Daisy presses down the steamer lid on a pair of nondescript black slacks. She wears a cute, flower-print, long-sleeve blouse with the sleeves rolled up. Her short, spiky hair is in a shambles. The SERVICE BELL rings behind her.
JOHN BOORMAN, Vice President of Bragg-Volk Pharmaceuticals, stands at the service divider with his hands folded formally in front of him. He’s a handsome older businessman, touches of gray at his temples, worry lines creasing his forehead, a faded tan leathering the skin of his cheeks and chin. Bright silver adorns his cufflinks, bifocals, watch, and the college class ring he wears. His clothes denote wealth, his posture denotes rigidity. There is something in his eyes and expression, however, that belies a decidedly business casual attitude. Laugh lines frame his mouth.
Daisy smiles at John from the steam press. She lifts the lid and flips over the slacks.
DAISY Hi, Mr. Boorman.
JOHN Daisy.
DAISY Here for your Sunday best?
John nods imperceptibly.
DAISY Got your tag?
John nods toward the divider. His tag pokes out from under the service bell.
DAISY Of course. Just let me finish these slacks and I’ll be right with you.
JOHN No rush.
Daisy presses the lid down again, which exhales a loud gout of STEAM noise. She glances towards John and raises a pierced eyebrow. The corner of John’s mouth tugs slightly up.
DAISY Empire?
JOHN Now?
DAISY Pleeeease? It’s a Friday, loosen up!
John bursts out in an indulgent grin.
JOHN Okay. I’ll start.
Daisy claps and pulls the steamer lid up again. She flips the slacks on their side. John unfolds his hands at the divider. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Daisy pulls the steamer lid down, releasing a gout of noisy STEAM.
JOHN (falsely bass) If you only knew the power of the Dark Side. Obi-Wan never told you what happened to your father.
Daisy pulls the steamer lid back up.
DAISY He told me enough! He told me you killed him!
Daisy pulls the steamer lid back down. Another gout of STEAM blows through the air.
JOHN No. I am your father.
DAISY No…That’s not true! That’s impossible!
Daisy pulls the steamer lid back up while making a ridiculous face at John. She pulls the slacks out and approaches the counter. She grabs John’s tag and pulls the steamer lid down again. The STEAM noise goes off again. John suddenly gesticulates wildly with his right hand.
JOHN Search your feelings! You know it to be true! And don’t forget my tie this time!
DAISY No! No!
Daisy retreats and disappears through a door behind the counter. John turns his head and searches the door for possible incoming customers. Seeing none, he dons a black leather driving glove retrieved from a back pocket and places the metal garbage can from the front of the divider on his head. Daisy returns and stands in the doorway to the back with a garment bag over her shoulder. She chuckles and shakes her head. From inside the garbage can, John speaks again.
JOHN Luke, you can destroy the Emperor. He has forseen this. It is your destiny. Join me, and together, we can rule the galaxy as father and son. Come with me. It is the only way.
DAISY Oh my god, you are sooo embarassing.
The door to the cleaner’s opens. BARBARA HANNA, another VP at Bragg-Volk, enters with a pair of garment bags. Daisy squeals, but quickly regains her composure.
DAISY Ms. Hanna, good to see you!
John stiffens up immediately and utters a quick curse under his breath. Barbara shakes her head and sets the garment bags on the counter.
DAISY Let me get you a tag for these.
BARBARA Don’t be rude, dear. Finish this… man’s business.
John slides forward with his arm out. Daisy drapes his bag over the outstretched appendage. Barbara is glaring at John.
DAISY My… uncle just dropped by for his suit and thought he’d entertain me.
Barbara visibly loosens up. She smiles broadly at Daisy and John.
BARBARA You didn’t tell me you had relatives here, Daisy! Introduce me, silly girl!
DAISY Um… Ms. Hanna, this is my uncle. Anakin.
The garbage can on John’s head nods toward Barbara.
BARBARA My, aren’t you a pill? Nice to meet you, Anakin.
John nods again and slowly backs out of the laundry.
BARBARA Strange man. Nice dresser, though. Is he single?
April 25th, 2007 at 10:29 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
A CHINESE COUNTER LADY looks at a yellow receipt, raises her gaze and takes in the customer across from her:
DOUG WILLIAMS. Late 20s, wearing jeans and a ringer t-shirt. Blonde, thin and non-descript. Expressionless.
The Chinese lady lets out a STRING OF MANIC, UNDECIPHERABLE MANDARIN for the benefit of someone in back.
She stares at Doug. He holds her gaze. Her eyes narrow.
CHINESE WOMAN We got stain out.
A SMALL CHINESE MAN appears from the back room. He struggles with a couple of furry costumes and a pair of crotchless leather chaps covered in transparent plastic.
DOUG How much?
CHINESE WOMAN Hundred dollar.
Doug pulls out a thin wallet and opens it. Inside, just cash. Like a wad of c-notes. He pulls out a couple of bills and hands them to the lady.
She GASPS, fumbles to give him back the extra, but –
He’s already out the door with his stuff.
April 25th, 2007 at 10:32 am
From behind the dry cleaner’s front counter, Sally sees a man about her age FALL into the front door, a failed attempt to push it open. STUNNED, he takes a moment to realize that he must pull. He manages it open and uses the handle to more-or-less swing himself inside the building, his momentum propelling him toward the counter.
The slight collision causes a small cloud of something like dandruff to FALL out of his brown beard, onto the counter. Sally’s eyes follow it, with her face still pointing at the man.
Still looking at the counter:
SALLY: Can I help you?
MAN: I need my clothes.
Sally covers her nostrils with her hand, not so non-chalantly
MAN: Mouthwash. You know, for my teeth.
SALLY: It’s working.
MAN: I need my clothes.
SALLY: Name?
MAN: Jake Rickson.
April 25th, 2007 at 10:32 am
INT. E-Z CLEAN – DAY
The tiny shop is quiet, the machines hum listlessly. MAY, the crusty proprieter reads a battered copy of LIVING behind the counter.
RICK (O.S) Oh dear jesus!
RICK RYDER (22) bursts through the door, wild-eyed and in a full blown panic. His T-Shirt says “Hanging Loose in San Pedro”,he is anything but. This is Los Angeles and RicK is on the verge of tears as he scrambles past May to one of the dryers.
MAY (Not looking up) You gotta ticket kid?
RICK Oh-christoh-shit.
He throws open the door. An avalanche of jeans topple out. He roots through them. His hands shake as he finds a battered pair of Levies. His sholders collapse and he wimpers as he pulls what is left of his paycheck from the pockets. He wrings out the soggy mess and lets the pulp fall to the floor.
MAY You gonna clean that up er’ what?
April 25th, 2007 at 10:43 am
EXT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
An ornery, ancient Honda careens into the parking lot, screeching into a space. Out tumbles CLARENCE MALLOY, unshaven, egg-beater hair, stained wife beater. All that’s missing are the wavy smell lines.
He struggles out of the car, trying not to let any balloons slip out, and ends up slamming the door on his clown pants. He always does that.
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
Clarence scurries up to the counter, out of breath. The cashier eyes him, wary.
CLARENCE I lost my ticket. But it’s Malloy, a clown shirt? Bosco stains? Oh, and, I’m in a bit of a hurry.
He tries a smile. It misfires.
April 25th, 2007 at 10:47 am
INT. Dry Cleaners – Day
Outside the window a massive suited bulk stands smoking a cigarette, waiting for the suburban housewife crowd to clear out. When the last lady leaves, he flicks the butt into the parking lot and comes in. The bell JINGLES and he strangles the sound in a meaty hand, leaving a mangled hunk of tin.
CLERK May… may I help you?
TRACER You know why I’m here.
The clerk turns to the racks and pulls down a suit covered in plastic, at least a size 50. Trembling, he hands it over.
Tracer takes the suit, lifts the plastic, and reaches into the pocket. He pulls out a bundle of cash, thumbs through it, puts it back and smoothes the plastic.
He takes a mint out of the charity display rack on the counter. Pats his pocket for change.
TRACER Hey kid, you got a nickel?
CLERK Yeah?
TRACER Give it to the crippled kids. I’m light.
April 25th, 2007 at 11:08 am
INT. DRY CLEANER – LATE AFTERNOON
No one in sight except for a guy tapping his fingers on the counter. GEOFFREY CONROY, early 20s, dress shirt still tucked in to his shiny department store slacks, hair neatly combed. He keeps looking around like a sudden ambush is entirely possible. After fifteen more long seconds, he reaches for the bell, hesitates, and puts his hand in his pocket.
April 25th, 2007 at 11:12 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – EARLY MORNING
Today SUTTON POTHIER (59) will try his best to be natural. His wig is on straight.
The CLERK returns with a plastic wrapped garment.
Sutton’s tag reads 47. The one on the garment: 147.
It’s a prom dress.
SUTTON Oh, this ain’t mine.
CLERK What?
SUTTON Huh?
He snatches the dress and runs out of the store.
April 25th, 2007 at 11:14 am
“The winning entry might be one sentence long.” – JA
DIRTDICE LAUNDRETTI walks into a dry-cleaning shop…
April 25th, 2007 at 11:18 am
JIMMY HILL approaches the counter with a sense of purpose. He is lean but his build is deceptive for a man of his medium height. His dress is casual but neat. His hairstyle is a holdover from his 30 year service in the US Marine Corp. There is a tattoo on his left forearm and he wears his watch on his right wrist.
April 25th, 2007 at 11:27 am
INT. REDDI-QUICK DRY CLEANERS – DAY
An old rotary phone RINGS INCESSANTLY in the tiny, rundown shop.
The owner’s GRANDDAUGHTER appears from behind a large pile of dirty clothes and answers the phone.
GRANDDAUGHTER (on phone) Reddi-Quick. Yes. Yes.
She peers out the front window, sees a black stretch limo with tinted windows parked up on the curb.
GRANDDAUGHTER Okay…when did you drop them off? When? 1989? No. They’re gone. You can’t–. What? Hold, please.
She vanishes again and returns with ten hangers covered in plastic and dust.
Hangs them on a rack at the front counter.
She pulls up the plastic, reveals ten clean and pressed police uniforms.
Picks up phone.
GRANDDAUGHTER Yes, they’re here. Hello?
The front door flies open and CAL FOOTE charges in. He is weathered but good-looking, 40ish. He makes people nervous.
He grabs up the clothes and drops a twenty on the counter.
FOOTE All here? Ten?
GRANDDAUGHTER I guess.
FOOTE Umm, thank Henry for holding these for me.
GRANDDAUGHTER He’s dead. In 1994.
Foote gives her another ten dollars and darts out.
She watches as he jumps back into the limo and it drives off.
April 25th, 2007 at 11:51 am
LEE WATERS’s pristine, brand-new white cowboy hat is tipped over his eyes. He moves with casual athleticism. He wears cowboy boots that have never touched a prairie and a toothpick rolls between his lips. He grabs his crotch, and stares at the mildewy walls. His penis is becoming aroused at the sight of the gorgeous dragon-woman behind the counter.
April 25th, 2007 at 12:15 pm
CALEB HARRISON pushes his way into the cluttered store, sweat lining his upper lip. Fire-red hair pokes through holes in an old baseball cap that barely hides the permanent frown across his face, and a filthy white t-shirt hugging his huge frame leaves little to the imagination. A pronounced limp follows the forty year old as he approaches the counter.
April 25th, 2007 at 12:21 pm
INT – DRY CLEANERS (DAY)
Two dark suits sit folded on the small counter. A young boy, probably the store’s owner, sits at the other end doodling unenthusiastically. The inert hum of tedious, repetitive work drifts listlessly in from the back. A mono radio might be playing somewhere. It’s hard to care.
Silently, a black clad figure descends on a wire from a high, unseen ceiling above the suits, neatly grasping them at the exact moment that downward motion seamlessly switches upwards. The figure is out of shot just before we quite realise what we’ve seen; the whole movement takes no more than two seconds.
The boy looks up from his doodle. He could have sworn there were suits there.
[P.S. Number 9 rocks. Kudos to Thomas.]
April 25th, 2007 at 12:41 pm
INT. HAPPY LAUND-O-RAMA – DAY
The Korean family running this joint never skimp on the starch. Clothes wrapped in plastic whiz in circles as the thirteen family members working today turn their attention to JOHN AUGUST (36), entering with a stained tuxedo in hand.
His fidgeting annoys the father at the front desk.
JOHN Uh, I was at an awards dinner last night and–
FATHER What wrong with suit?
JOHN It’s a tuxedo, actually.
The father grows more annoyed and just stares at John.
JOHN I spilled wine on it.
FATHER Okay. Seven dollah. You come back Wednesday.
JOHN Do I get a slip?
The father looks like he’s ready to jab John in the neck with his pen as he fills out the slip and angrily hands it to him.
FATHER Bye.
JOHN (mumbling) Tim never has to put up with this shit.
April 25th, 2007 at 12:53 pm
JOE WALLACE sways side-to-side, keeping his eyes fixed on the curled-up toe box of his shoes as he waits for the last customer to finish at the counter. Wearing a t-shirt from the ’84 Olympic Games and Levi’s he’s had since the seventies, he smells strongly of tobacco and whiskey and faintly of urine. His leathery skin and graying hair are almost the same color. He steps aside, making sure there’s at least five feet between him and the soccer mom exiting the cleaners. He shuffles up to BECCA, the cashier, and waits for her to acknowledge him.
BECCA Mornin’ Joe.
JOE Hey.
Becca leans down on the counter trying to look Joe in the eyes. He allows himself a couple seconds of eye contact before getting down to business.
JOE (cont’d) You got anything for me today?
BECCA Yep. A whole bunch of stuff just passed the 60-day mark yesterday.
She goes to the back, grabs a couple of bags full of designer suits, shirts, and slacks and hangs them on the hook for inspection.
BECCA Let’s see if any of this is your size.
JOE It don’t matter, I’ll take it all. Got anything for girls?
BECCA You got a girlfriend, Joe?
JOE I got lots of friends.
She goes back and grabs a few dresses and blouses.
BECCA Some of these suits are really nice. Nice enough to wear out for a party or a wedding or even a job interview.
Joe reaches up and takes the clothes.
JOE No time for jobs or interviews. Too many folks are countin’ on me.
Joe piles all the clothes into a rusted Radio Flyer red wagon outside on the sidewalk and pulls it away.
April 25th, 2007 at 1:21 pm
EXT. DRY CLEANERS – NIGHT
The CLOSED sign hangs quietly on the door of LUCKY CHAN’S CLEANING EMPORIUM as LENNY BRILL, late-30’s, dressed in a three piece suit, picks the lock while talking on his cell phone.
LENNY I don’t have time for this.
Lenny pauses and pulls out an inhaler and sucks deep.
LENNY Look, you said you saw him put the combination in his jacket pocket, and then you said you saw him bring the jacket to the dry cleaners — so, when you put two and two together you get four, not five, which is how many heart attacks I’m having right about now…what do you mean you’re not sure it was the dry cleaners?
A bright LIGHT blasts Lenny and floods the store front with white glare. Lenny turns to see a POLICE CRUISER coming to a halt in front of him.
The POLICE OFFICER behind the wheel rolls down his window.
POLICE OFFICER What’s the matter, one hour martinizing not fast enough for ya?
LENNY Uh, I gotta call you back Mom.
April 25th, 2007 at 1:30 pm
INT. ONE-HOUR CLEANERS – DAY
The summer heat wave is even more oppressive inside. The owner / clerk / head drycleaner LETTICIA FONTANOZA wilts at the counter, pencil hovering over a half-done sudoku.
The door sensor CHIMES OFF-KEY as a customer enters. Letticia looks up to see…
JEREMY “JER” ELLIOT, mid-twenties and whippet-thin, cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. Over his shoulder is a hemp bag filled with metal clothes hangers. His ponytail, Ben Franklin glasses, and omnipresent grin bob to the music in his head as he types one-handed on his PDA.
LETTICIA Good morning, Jeremy! How are you?
JER Hey Letty. Just updating my page. ‘Jer is: getting the drycleaning.’
He shows her the PDA screen briefly. Then pops it in the side pocket of his shorts. He slings the bag off his shoulder – it JANGLES.
JER Oh, and I brought you some more hangers. Reduce, reuse.
April 25th, 2007 at 2:04 pm
INT. QUICK CLEANERS – DAY
The front door is propped open with a cinder block, allowing both the intermittent breeze and sounds of the strip mall to enter freely.
KENNETH (not Ken, or Kenny, or Kenny-Boy), stands a safe distance from the counter, pick-up ticket in hand. He’s in his early thirties, great posture, clean teeth. The close cropped hair seems to match the short-sleeve dress shirt, black tie, and black pants. He might be a Mormon, and you can bet his underwear is of the white and constrictive variety.
The teenage COUNTER GIRL looks up at him from her stool behind the register. She rolls her eyes, goes back to US Weekly.
Kenneth eyes the sign under the counter: “Next Day Service Can Be Picked Up After 3:30″. Without thinking, he unconsciously adjusts the Blackberry, iPod, and cell phone holstered on his waist. He checks his digital watch: 3:29. The large wall clock agrees.
The Counter Girl, seeing the clock, gets off her stool, grabs the plastic-wrapped, short sleeve dress shirts from the rack behind her and places them on the pick-up rail at the counter.
The large wall clock ticks over to 3:30. Kenneth steps forward, places his ticket on the counter.
KENNETH Pick up, please.
April 25th, 2007 at 2:10 pm
INT. LAUNDROMAT – EVENING
DING! The BELLS over the door ring.
In walks five-foot-nine of unadulterated nebbish. NATE LASZLO (mid 40s) steps gingerly around an orange tabby cat on the floor, and looks up at the CLERK, his gray eyes blnking widely behind coke-bottle glasses. Although Nate stands expectantly, the Clerk does not look up from his newspaper.
April 25th, 2007 at 2:10 pm
INT. LAUNDROMAT – EVENING
DING! The BELLS over the door ring.
In walks five-foot-nine of unadulterated nebbish. NATE LASZLO (mid 40s) steps gingerly around an orange tabby cat on the floor, and looks up at the CLERK, his gray eyes blnking widely behind coke-bottle glasses. Although Nate stands expectantly, the Clerk does not look up from his newspaper.
April 25th, 2007 at 2:13 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS — NIGHT
The place is deserted. It’s been closed for hours. Under a row of benches a cigarette lighter illuminates BONG HORTONs face. He glances around, not sure of where he is.
He crawls out from under the benches and lights up a cigarette.
BONG Hello? I need my clothes!
No answer. Bong drops his cigarette and stomps on it. He walks up to the counter and presses the bell. No one comes.
BONG What the hell!
A noise from outside. Bong runs to the front door, but smashes his shin on the bench he was sleeping under and falls.
BONG Damnit!
He gets up and gets to the door. His gaze darts from side to side, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. He can’t see. His efforts to open the door are thwarted by the pad-locked, deadbolted and chained door.
He punches the glass door, but nothing happens. Not even a crack. He punches it again. And again. Nothing happens.
BONG Alright, that’s enough.
Bong walks to the front counter, looks around to make sure no one is watching. He starts running in circles until he is too dizzy and falls down.
When he gets up, he is dressed in an all black ninja costume.
BONG Ninja-Bong!
Ninja-Bong looks around to make sure he’s alone, satisfied, he hops over the counter in one smooth motion. On landing, he rolls behind the wall and into the back room.
In the back room, he pops up and presses his back against a wall. He slides along the wall, being sure to not make a sound.
He gets to a rack of dark clothing. He pulls his lighter and his dry cleaning tag out of his sock. He lights the lighter and matches one of the items on the rack to the number from his tag. He stuffs the item in a small bag on his back.
He pulls a three-foot sword off his back and starts knifing up the other clothes on the rack.
BONG Try to keep clothes from Ninja-Bong will ya? This’ll teach ya! HAHAHAHAHA!
He does backflips out of the backroom and all the way to the front door.
He tries to get out, but finds the door still locked. This time though, his Ninja punch has no problem knocking the entire glass out of the door. He slips through.
EXT. DRY CLEANERS – NIGHT
Ninja-Bong crouches onto one knee and checks out his surroundings. Finding no-one there, he reaches into the back on his bag and pulls out a small explosive. He places it onto wall and sticks a fuse in.
He backflips down the street. Mid-flip he pulls the cigarette lighter out of his sock and lights the fuse. He lands a flip on one knee and turns around to face the store.
The store, and half the block explodes in a huge ball of fire and debris.
BONG Don’t screw with Ninja-Bong’s clothes! HAHAHAHAH!
Ninja-Bong starts running in circles until he’s too dizzy and falls down. He gets up wearing his street clothes and runs away from the explosion.
April 25th, 2007 at 2:17 pm
INT – JOHNNY PANDA’S DRYCLEAN – EVENING
Uptempo Mariachi music plays quietly in Johnny Panda’s Dryclean. The linoleum has a dirty-wet sheen from a recent one-over with an old, underused mop.
Black mascara tears streak down the face of the Slavic model-looking ATTENDANT as she frantically struggles to open the safe under the counter. Her long fingernails are making her clumsy.
ATTENDANT (to herself) Please, you piece of shit!
JUNKIE (O.S.) Hurry the fuck up, you fucking bitch!
The Attendant tries to open the safe and is met with the unpleasant metallic CHUNK of the lock not budging. She begins crying more audibly now.
The Junkie is anxiously hovering over counter, his sunken eyes darting, snot dripping from his nose. He nervously switches the knife from his right to his left hand, then back.
JUNKIE What the fuck is wrong with you!? Open that fucking safe!
ATTENDANT I’m trying! The combination’s not working! I don’t know what to do…
The Attendant breaks down completely. The Junkie grabs her by the throat and waves the knife in her face. He snorts back his dripping snot.
JUNKIE I’m not fucking around here! Open that fucking safe right fucking now, man!
ATTENDANT I can’t! I tried! I can’t open it!
JUNKIE I’ll fucking gut you, bitch, I swear to fucking God, man!
ATTENDANT Please don’t! Please! I don’t- I’ll do anything, please… don’t…
She can’t talk through the tears and the choking anymore. The Junkie’s eyes move down to the Attendant’s chest. He looks back up to her eyes and smiles.
JUNKIE Anything, huh?
He licks his lips and moves in closer to his face. As he does-
A crossbow bolt BURSTS through his left eyeball in a geyser of blood and gelatinous blobs. The Junkie instantly dies and drops to the floor. The bolt does not hit the Attendant, who is standing frozen, spattered with blood and chunks.
Standing in the entrance to the Dryclean is TRAVIS TRACY, a man in his mid-thirties. The crossbow is hanging at his side. He approaches the counter, a glazed, zanax stare in his eyes. He’s chewing on an old pen cap and clearly cuts his own hair. The Attendant is still frozen in place.
Beat.
TRAVIS I didn’t know if you could really kill someone with a crossbow.
Beat.
TRAVIS I guess you can.
Beat.
TRAVIS Can I drop off my laundry?
Travis plops a small pile of dirty laundry on the counter and continues to chew on the pen cap. The Attendant just stares.
FADE OUT.
April 25th, 2007 at 2:35 pm
EXT. STATHEM’S EXECUTIVE DRY CLEANERS
Establishing shot of the fancy building, with a sign giving us the name. A Porsche pulls up in front of it.
INT. STATHEM’S
MARLA, the well-dressed desk clerk, listens attentively to the detailed instructions of the even-better-dressed woman dropping off her clothes.
JOHNNY rushes in, each step carefully calculated to perfectly balance speed and poise. He is dressed in what he thinks is casual. As he approaches the desk:
JOHNNY Quickly.
Marla immediately walks away from the woman to obtain Johnny’s clothes.
WOMAN Excuse me? I was speaking with the clerk.
He makes no attempt to acknowledge her. He hasn’t even taken off his sunglasses.
Marla quickly returns with his clothes. He takes them and is immediately heading back for the door.
WOMAN (cont’d.) Hey! You can’t just barge in front of me like you own the place.
Johnny stops. He doesn’t turn, but we do see him smirk.
JOHNNY Marla: Deny service.
…and he’s out the door.
The woman looks at Marla, shocked.
WOMAN That wasn’t…?
MARLA You have less than ten seconds to apologize.
The woman’s eyes widen. She runs for the door.
April 25th, 2007 at 3:02 pm
INT – “SUNSHINE LAUNDRY” – NIGHT
Sunshine Laundry had to be the scuzziest place on the East end; not the kind of place Paul wanted to find himself at 2:30 in the morning. Then again, there are very few places this computer programmer would have liked to find himself on a night like this.
With his backpack clutched under his jacket, Paul walks over to the machine in the furtherest corner of the small, empty room and claims a machine.
He catches his reflection in the washer’s glass door – his thin face looks pale and drawn. The sight causes his paranoria to flare up again – can anyone tell he just killed a man?
Paul empties the bloody clothes from the bag into the washer, and stuffs the backpack in too, just in case. He slams the door shut and fills the machine with the change in his khakis – it’s barely enough to get a rinse cycle.
April 25th, 2007 at 3:03 pm
Oops – the challenge was for a drycleaners – I did laundromat. Oh well, I stand by my submission!
April 25th, 2007 at 3:05 pm
Thirty-something BEN CAMPBELL’S ex-linebacker frame looks surprisingly at home in an ivory wedding dress as his five-inch heels clatter through the door of the dry-cleaners. Sweat shows through his close-cropped hair as he checks his watch. He’s looked happier.
April 25th, 2007 at 3:24 pm
INT.DRY CLEANERS.DAY
A Priest, a Frenchman and a Rabbi walk into a dry cleaners.
They’re facing a short, fat, balding man, who’s shoving a pile of mixed-colours into the furthest machine, wrestling with the items and the basket that holds them.
The Priest, the Rabbi and the Frenchman each pull out a silenced pistol from behind their back and aim it at the bald man’s back.
Rabbi
Mr E apologizes for not being here personally, but you killed his wife so I trust you understand why he’s absent.
Priest (to the Rabbi)
The funeral’s today?
RABBI
Yes, so?
Priest
Jesus Christ!
FRENCHMAN
Blasphème!
Subtitles: Blasphemy!
PRIEST (Under his breath)
Forgive me father.
The Priest hurries out of the dry cleaners.
RABBI
Mr E wanted us to deliver a message on his behalf.
Frenchman (loudly to himself)
Merde, la restauration!
Subtitles: SH*t, the catering!
The Frenchman drops his gun and exits the building.
RABBI
Mr E wanted us… me, to tell you that you when you take something of his, something as precious as the life of his beloved wife, there is a very serious price to pay.
Just then the Frenchman returns, running.
FRENCHMAN
J’ai oublié mon Silenced Pistol.
Subtitles: I forgot my Silenced Pistol.
He picks up his gun but slips on a soapy puddle. The gun coughs out two rounds which both embed themselves in the Rabbi’s chest, knocking him off his feet, blood splattering everywhere. The Frenchman crashes into a machine and then to the floor, a dull snap of his neck on impact.
The Bald Man begins turning the dials on the machine, though now a hearing-aid is clearly visible, dangling from his ear.
Bald Man (shouting to an off-screen character)
Mr Kim, this machine’s not working, can you fix it?
Mr Kim (O.S.) (shouting)
You no worry, I fix. You no pay today. You a very valued customer. We get bad type here, but you a good paying customer.
Mr Kim, a short Chinese man enters, holding a wrench and a bucket. He lays eyes upon the dead Rabbi and Frenchman.
MR KIM
What is this, a bad joke?
April 25th, 2007 at 3:32 pm
INT. LOTUS BLOSSOM DRY CLEANERS
Chinatown, 1900
We see a “modern” American building–brick construction and electric lights– filled with calligraphy posters and other decorations. About a dozen or so WORKERS are buzzing about in a steam-filled room, chatting with each other loudly in Chinese so as to be heard above the noise.
SUDDENLY, a tall, fair-haired man with fierce, imperialistic eyes, KLAUS SCHNEIDER, barges in. He looks young, but he’s 55, and very handsome.
The workers stop talking so loudly as they look over with interest then continue their work.
Klaus walks to the counter and dings the bell.
KLAUS Hey!
An attractive, short woman with soft, gentle eyes, WANG LING,55, approaches him and bows ever so slightly.
WANG LING I help you?
KLAUS That depends.
WANG LING You have clothes clean?
KLAUS The way I hear it, y’all do more than “washee washee” round here.
WANG LING What you mean? We clean. We clean clothes here.
KLAUS That’s all? I heard y’all clean carpets round here, too.
WANG LING Boo-sheet! We no want your business! You need leave! You go now before I call police!
Klaus takes out his wallet and shows her a shiny badge.
KLAUS I AM the police, ma’am.
By now the other workers are looking over with interest.
KLAUS (cont.) And I hear y’all are running some kind of prostitution ring here.
WANG LING No! We don’t! We don’t have prostitute here!
KLAUS Well, ma’am, we’ll have to see about that. I’m afraid y’all are under investigation.
Another man walks into the store, and Wang Ling’s eyes widen with fear–fear for her business.
WANG LING What you want me do?
KLAUS I’ll have to question some of your workers. (Klaus points to an attractive girl) How about her? What’s her name?
WANG LING She my daughter! Her name Wang Chung.
KLAUS I think I better take her in for private questioning.
Wang Chung yells at her daughter in Chinese.
WANG CHUNG Yeah, OK, she go with. She go now, and you go too!
KLAUS Alright then. I’m sure things will work out just fine. You have a nice day now, ma’am. I’ll be back.
WANG CHUNG (automatically) You too.
April 25th, 2007 at 3:50 pm
JAKE PINKERTON’s aftershave announces his arrival 3 seconds before he comes through the door. He struts into the dry cleaners (chest: out. collar: up) and flashes a smile at a seated ATTRACTIVE FEMALE customer.
He looks good, she knows he looks good and he knows that she knows he looks good.
Jake winks at TONY CHEN, the dry cleaner.
JAKE Yo Chang, whats the damage?
TONY My name is Tony.
JAKE Let it ride dog. You got my duds ready? I got another sweet partay tonight.
TONY Yes, but I’m afraid we couldn’t remove (lowers eyes) …all of the stains.
April 25th, 2007 at 4:10 pm
INT. DRYCLEANER’S – DAY
Slumped in utter boredom behind the counter, Britney presses the switch for the mechanical clothes rack–the garment bags whirl by. She presses the switch–they stop. Presses it on…swish.
The door opens–it’s DEVON, Emo guy, tripping over the entrance mat.
Britney perks up. She presses the button…the clothes rack slows, but doesn’t stop.
BRITNEY Wotcher, Devon.
Devon tosses his long bangs out of his face. Too-practiced cool.
DEVON You even know what that means?
BRITNEY Course. Like ‘hi,’ but not so, like, ‘hello.’
She presses the button as she talks. The clothes are spinning around. Faster.
DEVON Is it supposed to be doing that?
BRITNEY Sure.
SMOKE seeps from the ceiling motor–with a horrendous CLANK, the motor cuts out and the clothes swirl to a gentle stop.
BRITNEY No problem.
She fans smoke away from her face. Devon stretches, checking out his reflection in the window.
DEVON So, I got you that CD. But it’s at my house.
BRITNEY Any parents around?
DEVON Nope.
BRITNEY I can come by after work.
DEVON Bring something to drink. Something good this time.
He trips again on his way out the door. Britney sighs.
BRITNEY Sure.
-30-
April 25th, 2007 at 4:17 pm
A homeless man appears through the giant window of the dry-cleaners. He is in his late thirties, though years of rough living have made him appear at least a decade older. The clothes he wears are a mismatch of chaotically frayed material that he has clearly been wearing for months if not years.
His head is held low causing him to bump into those passing him. Without a moment’s pause, he walks directly into the road and pays little attention to the screeching brakes and horns of the infuriated commuters. His fingers twitch rhythmically at his sides as if hitting invisible piano keys as he stands on the tips of his toes and carefully reads the sign on the window. He hangs his head again as he opens the door and walks into the dry-cleaners. This is SEYMOUR GREEN.
April 25th, 2007 at 5:06 pm
INT. PRISTINE IMAGE DRY CLEANING
MAHIT is sitting behind the front desk reading a magazine. A bell announces the arrival of a customer. Mahit lifts his eyes from the magazine and looks to the front door at a DIRTY WHITE MAN IN A SUIT, messy brown hair, loose tie, untucked shirt. The man is breathing heavily and walking slowly. Mahit looks suprised.
MAHIT Jesus Tom, you look like shit.
TOM looks Mahit in the eye, catches his breath, and responds very calmly…
TOM Just give me my clothes.
April 25th, 2007 at 5:29 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
A middle-aged man pays for his order, slings plastic covered suits over his shoulder, thanks the female clerk and turns to walk out of the shop.
Behind him, a bald man, mid-thirties and wearing a black three button suit walks in to the shop as silent as the Prius he road in on. The two men collide.
MIDDLE AGE MAN Oh! Sorry.
BLACK SUITED MAN Instead of being sorry, why don’t you do our planet a favor and try Googling dry cleaning alternatives some time?
The middle-aged man gives a puzzled look and hurries on his way.
CLERK May I have your ticket?
BLACK SUITED MAN (pats his suit pockets) I seem to have misplaced it. How about a badge instead?
He whips out a badge just long enough for the clerk to read the initials EPA. His look is all business, from his spit polished wing tips to the mirrored aviator glasses framing his expressionless mug.
BLACK SUITED MAN Detective John August. I’m investigating a complaint about some spilt pickle juice in the back alley.
CLERK Come again?
DETECTIVE AUGUST Leaky drums. Chock full of nasty dry cleaning chemicals.
CLERK Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of it. I’ll take you back.
DETECTIVE AUGUST That would be swell.
The clerk leads the detective through the snaking racks of clothes out a door into an alleyway. Just outside the door sit several 50 gallon barrels. Some are stacked on top one another and a couple are on their sides, leaking a trail of green liquid that leads to a nearby storm drain.
DETECTIVE AUGUST Looks like someone’s behind on their house keeping.
CLERK (bending down to right a fallen drum) I had no idea.
DETECTIVE AUGUST Don’t bother. I’ll get a cleanup crew out here and do it right.
He walks over to a man hole cover, bends down and pries it off with his bare hands.
CLERK I’m so sorry. My father owns this shop and he will make sure this doesn’t happen again.
DETECTIVE AUGUST It may be too late. Don’t you know what this stuff does to a living creature? Don’t you ever watch late night TV or go to the drive in movies?
The clerk shakes her head.
DETECTIVE AUGUST I’m talking about rats the size of pitbulls. Alligators bigger than a Chevy Suburban. And the homeless. Poor deformed souls who’ll just as soon devour one another as a hoagie left on top of a trash can. I’m talking about chemically induced mutation.
He carefully takes off his sunglasses and coat, folding the coat and laying it on top of some pallets.
DETECTIVE AUGUST You better go inside and see to your customers. I’ll handle this from here.
The clerk heads back inside, looking over her shoulder with a worried look.
Detective August’s mobile phone rings. He answers.
DETECTIVE AUGUST Yeah? … It looks pretty bad. …. I think I’ll have a look. Tell my husband I’ll be late for dinner.
He pockets the phone, pulls a nickel-plated Colt 45 from a hip holster and a Mag light from his back pocket. He peers down into the manhole with this gun with his gun and flashlight at the ready and just like that, leaps into the void.
April 25th, 2007 at 5:35 pm
A robust MAN, wearing a poor boy cap and a wrinkled tweed jacket, stares right at US. His left pupil vibrates in place. It slips towards his ear or the bridge of his bulbous and capillary broken nose.
This is MATTEO PASQUALI.
An anemic WOMAN, her cheekbones trying to escape her skin, stares right at US. Her head vibrates. It slips from shoulder to shoulder fascinated by whatever it sees.
This is PAULA PERSONS.
Paula and Matteo stand facing each other. She holds out a dry cleaning bag. In it, visible through the clear plastic: a poor boy cap and a pressed tweed jacket.
Matteo removes his cap and his jacket, rolls them together, and places them on the counter. He takes the dry cleaning from Paula, unwraps it, and puts the clean cap on his balding head and then the crisp jacket over his thick shoulders.
He digs into his tweed pants, dust blooming off as he rummages in his pocket. He pulls out some cash and lays it on top of the ball of soiled clothes.
PAULA: I don’t have any change.
MATTEO: That’s fine.
Paula slides him a ticket for his new order.
PAULA: Same time next week.
MATTEO: Yes.
Beat. He doesn’t move.
PAULA: Your eye looks better.
MATTEO: You think so… thanks. You look good too.
PAULA: I’m on a diet.
MATTEO: It’s working…
Beat.
PAULA: Next week?
MATTEO: Okay…
Matteo stares right at US. His right eye lingers a bit too long.
April 25th, 2007 at 5:37 pm
INT. THE WHITE WASH
The door jingles and in walks
SEBASTIAN – a silver fox of a man.
Sebastian wears manly aggression. His uniform: STARK WHITE leather cowboy boots and a pinstriped suit. Masking a soul that needs more than a dry clean.
The attendant notices him immediately, perks up, digs through clothes. He retrieves a PINK VELVET SUIT with a massive stain across the front.
ATTENDANT (Noticing the stain) Ohh… no, I have n-
SEBASTIAN I’m falling out of love with you, fast.
Sebastian reaches behind the small of his back, and…
TO BE CONTINUED.
April 25th, 2007 at 5:43 pm
INT. KWIK KLEEN – DAY
Stained wallpaper, a vase of dusty artificial flowers, a BORED CLERK, and plate glass windows.
Outside, a sedan pulls up, and a big black man in a burberry trench coat gets out. TINY MASTERSON, mid-20’s, very dark skin. He stumbles on the curb and nearly falls.
The Bored Clerk laughs, as Tiny enters.
Tiny knows it’s at him, and doesn’t meet the clerk’s eyes.
TINY I’m, ah, here to pick up my suit.
BORED CLERK Ticket.
Tiny rummages his pockets, finds some receipts.
TINY I’ve got it… one of these… I think…
He places them on the counter and sorts through them. Pulls one out.
TINY This is the receipt.
BORED CLERK I need the ticket.
TINY It’s that one, right there.
It’s pretty obvious it’s his suit, as there aren’t many his size on the rack. Did I mention he’s a big guy?
BORED CLERK Need the ticket, bro.
TINY Look, here. (points at the receipt) I paid for tailoring.
The clerk shrugs.
Tiny mutters.
He goes back out to the car.
The clerk laughs as Tiny rummages around in the car.
Tiny comes back in.
TINY I can’t find it. But that’s it. Just look at the tag. I’ts a Zegna. 58.
The clerk just stares at him.
TINY I don’t. What am I? Nevermind. I’ll… look at home.
He leaves.
The clerk laughs.
The edge of his expensive coat is caught in the car door.
(NOTE: Later on, he’d make a stop during an action sequence and retrieve that suit at gunpoint.)
April 25th, 2007 at 7:05 pm
BERNARD BRIGHAM strolls into the laundromat cuddling a ball of his dirty briefs.
He passes by a tumbling dryer, stops and slides back to it. He pops the door open a half inch, just enough to stop the dryer. Smiling to himself, he continues on.
April 25th, 2007 at 7:23 pm
The door to Magic Touch Dry Cleaners swings open. An electronic chime sounds to indicate the shop has a customer.
KATE hangs up the phone in the break room and hurries out to the front of the shop where she sees SETH, who is holding a cat and standing in nothing but a open bath robe which reveals a white t-shirt and boxers. It’s difficult to determine his age from looking at him. His hair is a wild tangle of thick brown hair on top and a full, bushy beard below. His face is covered with what appears to be grass and dirt.
KATE: Can I help you? SETH: I need to pick up Mr. Tinkles laundry, please. KATE: I’m sorry? SETH: Mr. Tinkles, that’s my cat, I need to pick up his laundry. KATE: Um, do you have a ticket?
Seth reaches into the pocket of his bath robe. He digs around and pulls out a hand full of change and random pieces of paper which he then sets on the counter. He sorts through the paper on the counter until he finds his laundry ticket. He then uses his free hand to straighten the ticket and hands it to Kate. Kate takes the ticket, glances at it, and then heads to the back. Seth flashes a smile and scratches under the cats chin and whispers into its ear.
April 25th, 2007 at 7:28 pm
INT. DRY-CLEANER’S – DAY
MR. NORIEGA, the business owner, sits behind the counter reading the LA Times. Thick glasses, halo of wispy white hair, Mr. Noriega is coasting down the backside of 60.
The bell DINGS and an unseen customer enters.
Mr. Noriega glances up, jumps to his feet, and hustles into the back of the store.
MR. NORIEGA Hey, Mr. Stone, I got your jacket in the back.
HENRY STONE tosses an unneeded dry-cleaning ticket on the counter.
Vaguely 40-ish, trim build, nice clothes, but not Rodeo Drive nice. The trouser crease and fastidious jacket belie a certain discipline, perhaps a self-made businessman.
But those eyes. No businessman has ever seen the kind of shit that gives you eyes like that.
DING-DING. The door opens again.
Two YOUNG THUGS enter. They wear the arrogance of youth like armor and fly the gang tattoos like battle colors.
They glance at Stone, see a forty-something business dude waiting for his dry-cleaning. No worries.
One of them shifts something under his shirt, hidden in a waistband. The other glances out the window–
Mr. Noriega comes out of the back with a nice dinner jacket (not Rodeo nice) on a wooden hanger, wrapped in cellophane.
MR. NORIEGA Here it is, Mr. Stone. You know, I didn’t–
Mr. Noriega sees the two Thugs for the first time.
He barely spares them a glance, hangs the jacket on the metal bar over the counter.
MR. NORIEGA I, uh, I didn’t think I was going to be able to get the blood out, but it finally broke loose. Sure was a lot of it this time.
Mr. Noriega holds up a cuff for Stone to inspect.
Stone doesn’t inspect the cuff, but he does inspect the Thugs. They finally catch the eyes.
STONE (still looking at Thugs) Thank you, Mr. Noriega.
The body casually bladed away from the Thugs, the way the jacket hangs away from his hip, like just maybe it’s weighted to hang that way, hands just above the belt buckle, fingertips tented comfortably.
Something about this smells real bad to the Thugs.
THUG #1 (to Mr. Noriega) Uh, excuse me, sir. Is there a Chinese place around here?
MR. NORIEGA ‘Bout four blocks up by Wilshire.
THUG #1 Thanks, man.
Thug #1 elbows his partner and they head for the door.
STONE Careful, boys. This is a bad neighborhood.
Thug #2 just quickens his pace and pushes out the door. Thug #1 glances back– He shivers in that tiny moment of eye contact.
THUG #1 Y-yeah. I heard that.
As the Thugs leave, Stone reaches in his pocket, tosses some bills on the counter.
STONE Keep the change, Mr. Noriega.
Stone walks out, his dry-cleaning slung over his shoulder.
Mr. Noriega waves and opens the register.
MR. NORIEGA Thanks, Mr. Stone. Come back anytime.
Mr. Noriega settles back down to finish reading his paper.
MRS. NORIEGA, the owner’s plump wife, peeks out from the back.
MRS. NORIEGA Did I hear the bell?
MR. NORIEGA (from behind his paper) Yup. You missed Mr. Stone. Gave me a big tip again.
Mrs. Noriega looks out the front window and smiles.
MRS. NORIEGA I like him. Such a nice gentleman.
MR. NORIEGA Yup… Nice man.
April 25th, 2007 at 7:42 pm
Oops. I misread this. I was thinking laundromat for some reason. Can you delete my entry above? Thanks!
April 25th, 2007 at 8:06 pm
EXT. DRY CLEANER’S — DAY
A graying, overweight LOBBYIST(mid 40s) sweats in his pewter-colored suit with the NRA pin in the lapel, as he makes a grim effort to smooth the wrinkles from both his forehead and the pink slip of paper in his hand. Taking a deep breath and setting his jaw, he marches resolutely through a metal-framed glass door.
INT. DRY CLEANER’S — DAY BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT! The LOBBYIST’s entrance triggers an annoying buzzing sound as he enters the establishment. There is no-one at the front counter. His eyes dart to the entrance to the back room, and he shifts his weight from one foot to another uncomfortably in anticipation. The sounds of machinery, steam, and clanking that could possibly indicate human activity emanate from the back room, but no-one appears. A cheap plastic clock on the wall is ticking along.
LOBBYIST (muttering to himself, losing his nerve) I’ll just come back another time then…
His blackberry beeps, and he pulls it out to check the message. It reads: “MTG W/SEN WARNER MOVED UP TO 1:30″
LOBBYIST (CONT’D) (wincing to himself and pocketing the blackberry) Shit.
Glancing around to be certain he’s alone, the lobbyist leans over the counter, trying to spy his suits on the racks and racks of plastic-covered clothing. But as he’s reaching for the nearest rack, his eyes come to rest on a family photograph of a now-familiar cold-eyed Korean boy, and he pulls away, disturbed.
LOBBYIST (CONT’D) (To the photo, almost apologetic) Mmm, yeah… Knew I’d be out of luck comin’ here today. Had to try.
The photograph is unmoved.
LOBBYIST (CONT’D) (To the photo, now frustrated) Ya had to be from MY dry cleaners, didntcha? Thirty-two kids and my best three suits.
The photograph does not respond.
LOBBYIST (CONT’D) (To the photo, realizing it’s a lost cause and going for a parting shot) Well, thanks a friggin’ lot, psycho. Jeezus. Think of somebody besides yourself next time, huh?
The asshole lobbyist turns on his heel and storms out the door, causing another, shorter BZZZZZZZZZZZZZTT! to go unheeded by anyone who might have been in the back room.
April 25th, 2007 at 8:18 pm
INT. Dry Cleaners – DAY
Body length bags pour from a wall on a motorized rack whipping sideways around a tight arc and disappear again leaving behind an EERIE WHISPER, their contents guarded by opaque plastic.
MARSHALL (30’s) stands with both hands flat on the counter lost in thought, a man awaiting sentencing. His uniform squared and pressed. Medals and insignia shimmer and LEATHER CREAKS with each movement.
HAANS, the clerk, stands on the other side of the counter grading the scars that streak across Marshall’s day old scruff.
A white fleshy band dissects Marshall’s ring finger of his left hand.
MARSHALL Haans.
HAANS Marshall. How’s business?
MARSHALL Depends which side of the fence you’re on.
True enough.
The rack suddenly stops and Haans waits for the go ahead. Marshall hesitates, a familiar pain that’s inevitable. He nods.
The clerk reaches behind him without looking and takes a bag off the rack, lays it across the counter. The rack immediately starts up again.
CLERK Where you at?
MARSHALL Two more counting this one
A short timer.
With a deep breath Marshall slides the bag off the counter. Turns and heads for the door.
CLERK Not gonna look?
Over his shoulder.
MARSHALL Would it matter?
April 25th, 2007 at 8:27 pm
The COUNTER GIRL returns to DAVIS who waits alone at the dry cleaning service desk. She peers over the Armani tag in the collar of the impeccable suit jacket at the disheveled twenty-something man in faded “Tigers” t-shirt and ball cap missing its old English “D”. She double checks the order tag.
COUNTER GIRL Davis?
He nods as he takes it and quickly pulls off the plastic then brandishes a lapel stain at her.
COUNTER GIRL Oh, that. Well, we thought it was blood, but that we always get out. Maybe wine but the solvent wouldn’t clean it either. It had a faint sweet odor…
Davis reaches into his pocket as she fires excuses and happily presses a Jackson into her hand.
COUNTER GIRL Twenty bucks? For keeping a stain?
DAVIS For saving her last good-bye.
April 25th, 2007 at 8:38 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS – MORNING
KYLE CUNNINGHAM (25) enters the small store with a DING. Kyle looks like your typical L.A. hipster – chunky leather bracelet, fastidiously unkempt hair, Diesel jeans – the perfect marriage of style and disaffected cool.
Except he’s listening to a Coby brand MP3 player. He takes out the headphones.
The MANAGER, an amiable red-headed woman in her forties, immediately brightens when she sees him.
MANAGER Well hello there sunshine. You come in to brighten my day?
Kyle drops a ticket on the counter.
KYLE And to pick up my clothes.
MANAGER (picks up ticket) Three days already? Not that I’m complaining.
She eyes him up and down. Kyle shifts uncomfortably.
MANAGER Probably hanging up now. Back in a jiff!
She disappears to the back.
The door DINGS as SHANNON (21) enters. She has the long, lithe body of a Yoga instructor, nicely emphasized by her low cut spaghetti strap dress. Shannon lowers her sunglasses and looks at Kyle. Total stunner.
She lays a couple dresses on the counter.
SHANNON Cool jeans.
KYLE Oh. Thanks. Nice dress.
SHANNON It’s a little low, but it helps with auditions.
KYLE You’re an actress?
Shannon nods.
KYLE Me too. I mean…I act too.
SHANNON (leans in, smiling) Really? What are you working on?
The Manager reappears.
She lays an enormous clown costume on the counter. A huge red wig bulges from beneath the plastic.
MANAGER Good as new. And that vomit came right out.
Kyle swallows. He turns to Shannon.
KYLE For a friend.
MANAGER (smacks forehead) Almost forgot.
The Manager produces an 8 1/2 x 11 photo of Kyle in full clown garb. A little girl standing next to him beams at the camera.
MANAGER Kayla wanted me to give you this. She had the best time last weekend. And I’m so sorry about the donkey. I had no idea he was such a biter!
KYLE No problem.
Kyle, utterly dejected, drops some money on the counter. He goes to exit…then turns back and takes the photo.
He exits the store with a DING.
April 25th, 2007 at 9:41 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS — NIGHT (DREAM SEQUENCE)
First HEAR the ominous MACHINERY. There’s something disturbing about it; could just be the acoustics. There’s a faint, endless ROAR too… and:
DANG Hello?
This is DANG: late 20s, Asian-American, a reformed goth. Indentations where piercings have been removed. A jagged mop of dark hair slowly conforming to corporate control. He’s wearing an absurd tuxedo and looking perplexed under the FLICKERING fluorescent light.
RICHARD NIXON (O.S.) (rapidfire) Chum reap suor! Knyom soksabay awkun!
REVEAL… the one and only (and dead) RICHARD NIXON, dressed as a Cambodian dry-cleaner. He looks tired and cranky.
April 25th, 2007 at 9:58 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS – EVENING
An older man, who ports grey sweatpants and a way-to-tight-for-his age plain red shirt walks into an anonymous looking dry cleaner entrance. He walks in, as if not having been there before–blankly staring at the counter. A few employees are in the far b.g., steaming clothes clean. The older man is Jefferey, a somber man, who seems as if he embaresses his wife each sunday at brunch. He wears his dark sunglasses indoors, has a head of balding hair, and a forming potbelly. He speaks with vigor.
JEFFREY (seeking attention) Hello?
After a few moments, an young woman employee moves to the front counter.
WOMAN Yes? How can I help you?
JEFFREY Have I been here before?
WOMAN (confused) ..been here before…
JEFFREY Yeah, I can’t remember if I dropped my clothes off here.
The woman doesn’t react. She stands still.
JEFFREY Well, I think we have a problem here, don’t we?
A moment of time suspends before we:
CUT TO:
EXT. STREETSIDE – FRONT OF DRY CLEANERS – DAY (CONT’D)
Smiling, Jeffrey exits the dry cleaners, several grey suits in hand. He stops for a second, pulls out a pack of CIGARETTES and LIGHTS one up. He savors, and walks O.S, as we hear him hail for a cab.
April 25th, 2007 at 10:48 pm
LEONARD PATE (34) sidles up to the counter. He looks nervous, concerned. He wipes his sweaty hands across his starched white shirt. Hands his TICKET across to a tired MALE EMPLOYEE.
EMPLOYEE: “This ticket’s nine years old.”
The employee looks up, sees he’s staring down the chamber of a semi-automatic handgun.
LEONARD: “I’ve been busy.”
The employee quickly starts up the machine. It whirs around. Dry-cleaning moving past him.
LEONARD: “I hope you got the spot out”.
April 25th, 2007 at 11:03 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
A dust cloud enters.
It slowly clears to reveal JOE SMELLS, wearing quite possibly the first pair of clothes ever made, and they’ve certainly never been washed.
SMELLS Have your rates dropped yet?
The cashier shakes his head ‘no.’
SMELLS How about coupons, or specials going on?
The cashier rolls his eyes and points to a sign reading: WE DO NOT CLEAN CLOTHES YOU ARE CURRENTLY WEARING.
Smells sighs. As he exits–
SMELLS All right, I’ll check back later. Again. You should really think about changing your policies though. They make you look cheap.
April 25th, 2007 at 11:54 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS — DAY The place is pretty empty for a Sunday. A MOTHER sits in a chair, balancing her BABY and a seven year old magazine in her arms. A YOUNG WOMAN stands behind the counter, chewing bubble gum and twirling her finger through her hair. She looks bored out of her mind. Everything is normal, until…
CHRISTIAN FOSTER
A drugged out twenty-two year old bursts through the door. He looks as though he hasn’t slept for days. He has forgotten to pull his ski mask over his face, so WE SEE his dirty face and blood-shot eyes. He weilds an old beat-up handgun in the air.
CHRISTIAN: Everybody kiss the floor! This is a robbery!
Christian waits impatiently. The Young Woman just stares at him, like this has become a weekly routine for her. The Mother doesn’t even look up at him. She flips to the next page of her magazine.
YOUNG WOMAN: What do you want this time, Christian?
CHRISTIAN: The clothes. All of ‘em.
The Young Woman sighs, then walks into the back room.
The Mother looks up from her magazine. Christian waves to her with his gun hand.
MOTHER: Hello, Christian.
CHRISTIAN: Hey there. (Looks at the Baby) How old is she now?
MOTHER: She’ll be one next month.
CHRISTIAN: Good, good. (beat) You want me to leave your clothes this time?
MOTHER: That’d be nice.
There is an awkward silence while Christian waits for the Young Woman to return. He scratches at his tired eye with his gun hand.
The Young Woman returns with a huge pile of clothes. She drops them onto the counter.
CHRISTIAN: My stuff in there?
YOUNG WOMAN: Not sure.
CHRISTIAN: Well, I’ll just give you my ticket anyways.
Christian pulls out a dry cleaning ticket and hands it to the Young Woman. She gives him an “Are you serious?” look, but accepts it anyways.
Christian stares down the large pile of clothes.
CHRISTIAN: You got a bag or something?
YOUNG WOMAN: Yeah. They’re four-ninety-nine.
CHRISTIAN: (Taken away by the price) God, that’s robbery! (beat) Alright, empty the register, but leave five dollars in there for the bag.
YOUNG WOMAN: Fine.
The Young Woman pulls out a large embroided bag and fills it with the clothes. She opens up the cash register and loads the contents into the bag.
Christian grabs the bag and heaves it over his shoulder. He crosses the room and stands in the doorway.
CHRISTIAN: So…next Sunday any good?
YOUNG WOMAN: All the high schools in the district are supposed to be sending in their mascot’s uniforms.
CHRISTIAN: Perfect! I’ll see you Sunday then.
YOUNG WOMAN: Alright.
MOTHER: Bye, Christian.
And with that, the drugged out man on a three day bender makes off with his loot.
April 26th, 2007 at 12:10 am
A crowded city sidewalk.
Midday sun beats down on the workaday folks milling about on their myriad lunch breaks, bumping into each other, trying to stuff sandwiches down and walk at the same time.
Through them all comes JACKSON MARX.
Late twenties, early thirties at a push. Cocksure and just about handsome enough to justify it. Expensive jeans, cheap T-shirt, full beard and messed up hair that’s meant to look like that. He’s carrying a crocodile skin briefcase.
Jackson crosses the busy street, heading over towards the dry cleaners on the other side.
A PRETTY GIRL catches his eye over the road. Eye contact. Jackson gives an almost imperceptible smile. The pretty girl blushes, looks away.
Jackson smiles again, this time to himself, looks away.
A car smashes into him.
Jackson is thrown like a rag doll into the air, comes crunching down on the asphalt.
The car SCREECHES, and skids to a halt.
April 26th, 2007 at 12:34 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY Cop comes in. A world weary bull of a man with a big empty shopping bag. Nods to shop owner, who nods back. Cop opens Laundry machine. Claws out women’s clothing with his big, beefy mitts. Feeds the duds into his bag. Shop owner watches him warily. Cop frowns suspiciously at an outsize pair of panties. Glares at the shop owner. COP: I told you. No one else uses this machine. Tosses the panties aside. Slams the machine’s door shut. Stalks out with his now full shopping bag. Shop owner sighs. Customers!
April 26th, 2007 at 12:53 am
EXT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
JK STRYKER, 28, closes the clasp on one of his braces and nervously peeks his head around the door into the dry cleaners. The desk is vacant and he carefully walks in, taking a deep breath. Through a door he can see a busy trio starching and steaming.
He clears his throat, trying to attract attention. Nothing. He hits the buzzer to announce his presence. A young guy, PETEY, slowly walks through the door and stands behind the counter.
He looks annoyed and stares at our guy holding his hand out for a ticket.
STRYKER I lost my ticket.
Stryker suddenly feels a moment of panic and pats his beard as if he’d forgotten it was there.
PETEY What was it?
STRYKER A waistcoat and cummerbund, plaid.
PETEY What’s your name? Number?
STRYKER JK Stryker, Mr.
Without looking up Petey scribbles Mr Striker on a slip of paper. Styker beams.
STYKER Er my number is 555-5464.
PETEY Okay if it’s still here end of next month, I’ll give you a call.
Stryker breathes a sigh of relief, tugs at the sport bra underneath his shirt and proudly leaves the store empty handed.
April 26th, 2007 at 12:59 am
INT. DRY CLEAN-O-RAMA – DAY
A lazy afternoon in the summer heat. Fans blow on a handful of PATRONS as they wait for their loads. The CLERK behind the counter licks at a quickly melting ice cream cone.
The floor begins to SHAKE. Slightly at first, but building to earthquake proportions in mere moments. One Patron drops his book to the floor. Another makes a break for a doorway.
Square in the center of the room, pieces of the floor suddenly begin to drop out. Before their very eyes a 3-foot wide circle of concrete drops out of the floor.
A man rises up from the rubble. TEDDY’s muscles bulge out of his tightly fitting tank top and worn down jeans. Yellow safety glasses cover his baby blue eyes. He looks like the men in calendars women swoon over. He tosses aside his jackhammer and goggles, wipes the sweat off his brow, reaches in his back pocket and pulls out… a ticket.
TEDDY Order number five-one-seven, please.
His jaw dropping, the Clerk’s ice cream cone goes splat on the counter top.
April 26th, 2007 at 1:49 am
INT. CORNERSTORE DRY CLEANER’S – DAY Whoever named this place got it half right: it’s dry, but not very clean. Lint and dust gather in the corners, by the counter, and on the clothes of THE DRY CLEANING LADY.
Ding goes the bell above the door as TIM enters.
He’s a scruffy early thirties rebel with the attitude to match. Unshaven, his hair is a tangle of wiry knots, and a half-smoked cigarette dangles from his lip.
He’s hopping, as his right foot is stuck in a smallish plastic planter.
Also, he is stark-ass NAKED. He’s holding a large bag of money in front of his “adult material”.
TIM (VO) Admittedly, this day had been a bad decision from the beginning.
Tim hops to the counter, and sets the money bag on it.
TIM Hello, I need to pick up some clothes.
The Dry Cleaning Lady stares at him.
TIM Please.
DRY CLEANING LADY Do you have a ticket?
In response, Tim pulls a $100 bill out of the bag and sets it next to her.
TIM I’m not picky.
EXT. CORNERSTORE DRY CLEANER’S The door swings open.
TIM (VO) It’s the rare individual that’ll turn down free money.
Tim hops out the door, wearing a dry cleaning bag, with holes cut in the sides for his arms.
TIM (VO, CONTD) But I seem to find them all the time.
Tim hops down the street.
April 26th, 2007 at 2:29 am
INT. LAUNDROMAT – NIGHT
JOE MOMMAH busts through the the glass door like it’s a piece of binder paper. His muscular, twenty-something physique is accentuated by the tight, blood-spattered wife-beater that clings to his torso. He’s glistening with sweat, and wide-eyed in a way that only first-time killers can be. His current predicament (and the tragic life that preceded it) has in no small part been facilitated by the daily barrage of slights and insults he has been subjected to on account of his unfortunate name. His powerful, veiny hands are wrapped around a 50-caliber BMG rifle.
JOE Everybody down on the mothafuckin ground, right now!
The crowd down in no time, except for one ELDERLY WOMAN in a wheelchair, whose ailing respiratory system is attached to an oxygen tank by plastic tubes. She looks terrified.
JOE You too lady. Now!
A handsome YOUNG MAN at her feet lifts his head to address Joe.
YOUNG MAN Hey, you can’t talk to my momma like that. She’s para–
A massive 50-caliber bullet from Joe’s rifle tears the Young Man’s head to pieces, splattering brain matter and blood onto the washers.
JOE I’m  ‘Joe Mommah,’ bitch, and I do what I want.
Joe blows the old lady away, and jerks the gun toward a middle-aged business man lying next to  the headless corpse of the young man.
JOE You, open your dryer – slowly. Good… now take out the most expensive shirt, any pants that ain’t jeans, and some boxers. And when I say boxers I  mean it, you show me any o’ that tighty-whitey shit and you a dead mothafucka – I’m not playin.
April 26th, 2007 at 3:04 am
INT. DRY CLEANING SHOP – DAY
Drip…
FELIX is what happens when you squeeze a 25-to-life convict into the body of a 16-year-old Mexican. He’s behind the shop counter, facing away from the door, his white singlet stretching taut across a muscled, tattooed back while he carefully racks shirts encased in plastic film. (Carefully? OK, maybe there’s hope for the kid after all.)
Drip… Drip…
From the back of Felix’s shaved head, a fiery red-and-black skull tattoo glares at the world. The demon’s jaw murmurs silently whenever Felix flexes his thick neck. It stops moving; Felix holds still, finally noticing the sound coming from behind him, from the shop door.
Drip… DRIP. DRIP.
He peers over his shoulder. The wary look on his face melts into a smile. Felix turns to face his customer.
FELIX: Oh, hey. No wonder I didn’t hear the door chime. How’s it hanging, hombre?
CUSTOMER: Today? If it was hanging, I’d say mostly to the left.
Felix effortlessly vaults the counter and throws out his hand in greeting.
FELIX: You been gone a long time, man.
CUSTOMER: Long enough.
Felix and the customer do a homie handshake. For the first time, we see the customer’s hand and arm. They are skinless, red, raw, glistening. The forearm muscles bunch and quiver. Arteries and veins slither. White bone and knuckles protrude.
Taking his hand away, Felix glances at the patina of blood smearing his palm. He’s amazed more than repelled.
FELIX: You sure that doesn’t hurt, being that way?
REVEAL: Now we see THE CUSTOMER fully. The body build indicates a man. Wet. Red. And from head to toe, not an inch of skin to call his own. The doctors call this state “de-gloved”; you and I call it “skinned alive”. How old is he? Adult. Handsome? Could’ve been; not now — unless you’re the type who reads human anatomy books at bedtime.
CUSTOMER: Nope. Not a tickle.
SKULL BOY: Huh. You know, one time, got pushed out of a moving car. Skinned up my elbows and knees like a motherfucker. That did not tickle. You — I look at you and I’m thinking, “Ouch, morphine, please.”
CUSTOMER: My suit ready?
Felix is already headed back behind the counter.
FELIX: You know it. Patched all the bullet holes, sewed up the gashes real nice –
CUSTOMER: Whoah, wait right there. Didn’t I say no retreads this time? Felix, did I not say that?
Felix pops his head out from between the clothes racks.
FELIX: No, what you said was, “Male, thirties, long hair, olive complexion, no moles or freckles. And you said intact. This one is intact. We can argue semantics all day, but then who’s gonna get your suit out of the freezer?”
CUSTOMER: Intact will do.
FELIX: I thought so. Back in five.
April 26th, 2007 at 4:37 am
INT.DRY CLEANERS – EARLY MORNING
JERRY, peers out from under the mass of greasy dark hair plastered across his forehead. His oversized retro-style headphones pump loud repetitive music, which buzzes around the shop like a swarm of angry mosquitoes. He’s in his mid-fifties, with a scruffy yet fashionable surfer attitude to his clothes, and dirty bare feet.
He’s starting intensely at his fingers, picking incessantly at a piece of dirt trapped under his fingernail. By the concentration on his face, it’s clear this is the most important task JERRY has attempted this morning.
The woman behind the counter stares at him, bemused. She waves her hand in front of his face to attract his attention. JERRY, briefly startled, reaches up and lowers the headphones.
DRY CLEANING WOMAN
Hey Mister! You’ll need to turn the music down. It’s too loud.
JERRY (adjusting his music player)
Uh.. sorry. I can’t hear it so good when it’s turned down.
DRY CLEANING WOMAN
Yeah, well here’s your clothes. There was a stain we couldn’t remove, although we ran it through the wash twice. It’s here, on the shirt collar.
She holds up the shirt, for JERRY to inspect.
JERRY (leaning over the counter & squinting at the shirt)
Hmm. No matter. I ain’t planning on wearing it to any family funerals in the near future anyways, that’s for damn sure.
April 26th, 2007 at 5:15 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – EARLY MORNING
A young ATTENDANT fumbles for the front door key on her ring. Outside she eyes a taller, skinny man, BRAD DUNBAR, waiting in blank stare with pants slumped over one arm and a young child tugging on the other. Though morning, the day looks as if it’s already had it’s way with Brad who’s reached his thirties with little fanfare and much regret.
The CLICK of the lock interrupts Brad’s empty gaze.
April 26th, 2007 at 6:21 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS- NIGHT
Just about closing time. The small bells wrapped around the handle of the door tinkle, competing with the sounds of 80’s satellite radio playing in the background.
A tall, muscular, dark-skinned Indian man walks to the counter and eyes the tiny Polish woman behind the cash register. She notices black grease on his shirt and trousers, and dirt under his long fingernails. His shirt is slightly torn. He is middle aged, and there are traces of gray embedded in his thick beard, his mustache twirled at the ends into neat French curves.
Empty handed, the man looks up at the price card. The woman grabs a Kleenex and hands it to him, and he gently refuses. He nods slightly, and raises his hands to his head, where a large, tattered red turban winds around his skull.
He removes a metal comb and begins to unwind the turban, which is cleaner underneath but shows signs of age. Fully unwound, his long, thick hair falls to almost the small of his back. He looks beautiful, and the woman is in awe. He gently folds the turban and puts it on the counter.
AMARJIT
This needs to be cleansed.
April 26th, 2007 at 6:23 am
Who else wants to watch Earl Newton’s movie?
April 26th, 2007 at 6:35 am
Ditto Oli. Earl Newton, and that early front runner Thomas, are my two favorites so far…
April 26th, 2007 at 7:07 am
INT. DRYCLEANER’S A MAN in wearing a ragged tuxedo walks through the door. He holds forth an ancient paper receipt to the KOREAN WOMAN behind the counter.
KOREAN WOMAN How old this receipt?
The man just looks at her.
KOREAN WOMAN Okay. I find, I find.
The man turns to look out the front window of the shop. On the back of his jacket we see four bullet holes and some dried blood. The
The woman waddles out of the back with a suit.
KOREAN WOMAN $22.50
From a plastic bag labeled MILLS, STEPHEN the man counts out the money.
April 26th, 2007 at 7:13 am
INT. – DRY CLEANERS – DAY
A long line of DISGRUNTLED CUSTOMERS waits for their clothes. It’s hot, and the air conditioner hums in the background.
The door dings and in walks
DAVE GOODMAN, a trim 35 year old wearing suit pants and a bright white t-shirt. He GLIDES PAST the line, tosses a crumpled shirt into an empty basket, and wordlessly picks a waiting one off its hanger.
He gives the woman behind the counter a playful look – the lift that gets through these mornings – as he starts to put on his crisp shirt. By the time he reaches the door again, even the Disgruntled Customers have noticed he looks good.
April 26th, 2007 at 7:14 am
INT. SILVERLAKE CLEANERS – DAY
The old Asian woman behind the counter glances up from her paperwork as the bell sounds.
In walks MIGUEL ESTRADA (32) Mexican, tall as an NBA center, perfectly pressed Armani suit, peroxide hair. This guy would stand out in any crowd. But there’s no crowd here, just this old Asian woman.
She looks at him with terror in her eyes. She’s met him before.
He reaches into his pocket for something. She shakes her head no.
April 26th, 2007 at 8:28 am
My submission was here this morning (formerly #49) but it is gone now. No clue why. Any help?
-Jim
April 26th, 2007 at 8:39 am
INT. ABA AND EEMA DRY CLEANERS – DAWN
Dark. Not yet open for business.
We PAN through a sea of identical plastic hanging bags on an electrical rack, each clear bag filled with similar blouses, shirts and slacks.
Hanging on a hangar between two plastic bags we land on —
A BEARDED MAN’S LIFELESS BODY, 60ish, eyes closed, drool drizzles down the corner of his mouth, he wears only a pajama top (from which he hangs), Fruit of the Loom briefs, and a Cleveland Indians yarmulke.
EXT. ABA AND EEMA DRY CLEANERS – DAWN
An IMPATIENT MAN checks his watch. It changes from 5:59 a.m. to 6:00 a.m.
He presses the DOORBELL.
We ZOOM through the doorbell, through the electrical circuitry into –
INT. ABA AND EEMA DRY CLEANERS – DAWN
out of an electrical socket, down a three-pronged cord to land on —
an ALARM CLOCK –
which instantly starts BEEPING the heinous — ER-ER-ER-ER-ER-ER…
THE HANGING MAN
pops one eye open and sees the customer through the window.
His hand slaps the SNOOZE BUTTON on the alarm clock and the BEEPING stops.
He unbuttons each of the three plastic buttons on the front of his pajama top one by one. As he undoes the last button, his body slips out of the pajama top and he –
TUMBLES HALF-NAKEDLY INTO:
A pair of waiting SLIPPERS.
He slaps off the ER-ER-ERing alarm clock.
Runs over to a 1930s-style coffee pot and flicks on a switch. Coffee starts BREWING.
Opens a dryer and retrieves a pristine white one-piece bodysuit.
He zips himself into it to reveal the name Mordecai emblazoned on the left breast in cursive.
This is Mordecai, 65, Cleveland’s most dedicated dry cleaner. Vows to go to any length to keep the franchise dry cleaning chains that have popped up all over town from forcing him out of business.
EXT. ABA AND EEMA DRY CLEANERS – DAWN
The customer’s hand bangs at the glass and waves wildly.
INT. ABA AND EEMA DRY CLEANERS – DAWN
Mordecai walks to a lone hanging-bag by the counter and unsheathes the crispest, most sparkling white Cleveland Indians jersey this world has ever seen.
Mordecai unlatches the lock and flips the 1930s-retro “closed” sign to “open.”
Puts on his best smile, genuine, but fatigued.
CUSTOMER: I know I’m totally breaking Shabbat hours…
MORDECAI: Nonsense, Mr. Sardivan. Games don’t get bigger than this.
CUSTOMER: You got joe?
MORDECAI: French roast, fair-trade, just as you like it.
CUSTOMER: And the jersey? My boy and I are in the fifth row.
MORDECAI: (passes hanging-bag) Extra starched. Even added a water sealant in case this rain keeps up.
CUSTOMER: Channel five said it should clear by noon. (rifles through wallet) What’s the damage?
MORDECAI: (passes coffee in a to-go cup) On the house, my friend. The Indians are in the playoffs.
CUSTOMER: You’re the best, Mordy.
MORDECAI: Come again?
#
April 26th, 2007 at 8:50 am
Ah Christ, there’s no edit function! Mine was supposed to end with him PICKING UP his laundry, not dropping it off! Does this mean I’m disqualified?!
April 26th, 2007 at 8:58 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
MR. NASH, a fit man in his early forties, walks briskly into a Dry Cleaner. His suit fits perfectly from head-to-toe, his slick, black hair combed in place. Mr. Nash lives a very private life, feeling the need to give out his first name to strangers is unnecessary.
He approaches the counter, where the DRY CLEANING ATTENDANT awaits.
DRY CLEANING ATTENDANT What can I do for you today sir?
Without saying a word Mr. Nash slaps a receipt down on the counter.
The Dry Cleaning Attendant freezes upon seeing the receipt. After coming to, he hurries to the back of the store.
EXT. PARKING LOT – DAY
Mr. Nash approaches a black Nissan Maxima. Even with the sun beaming down, it doesn’t seem to effect him.
Mr. Nash unzips the cleaning bag, pulling out a matching suit jacket.
Mr. Nash takes off his suit coat, quickly revealing a blood stain on his inner coat pocket. He places the old coat in the bag, and puts on the new jacket.
He disposes the old coat and bag into a conveniently placed trash barrel, and opens his car door. As he’s about to enter the car, he hesitates, and opens his jacket to find
A LARGE STACK OF FOLDED ONE HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS.
Mr. Nash closes his jacket, takes a quick peak around, and gets into the car.
April 26th, 2007 at 9:30 am
VICTOR saunters in, a lazy boy in his 40s with cropped hair, earrings and a soul patch that doesn’t mean anything. There is a forced air of edgy displeasure about him, a good man playing at being Bad, but a perky, reflexive grin quickly gives up the game.
VICTOR Hel-lo…
MILLY, the tattooed, 20-something Kewpie doll behind the counter — and the main reason for Victor’s patronage — glances up from a thick book.
MILLY Can I help you, sir?
Victor sucks it up, nods impatiently. He was just there a few hours ago, God damn it.
April 26th, 2007 at 9:30 am
(sorry, this is my scene that follows the rules)
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
STUART KOUZNETZ, shaggy hair and week old beard, skitters into the dry cleaners. Perfectly normal in a white t-shirt and slacks. Not so normal are about twenty different watches that line both of his arms.
The DRY CLEANER does his best to ignore this fact.
DRY CLEANER Ticket?
Stuart reaches into his pocket and slides a ticket across the counter.
The Dry Cleaner picks up and reads it. His face drops.
DRY CLEANER Where did you get this?
STUART From here.
The Dry Cleaner rubs his chin.
STUART What?
DRY CLEANER Doesn’t make sense. The number is too high.
The Dry Cleaner shows Stuart a pad of tickets.
DRY CLEANER We’re only on 108. This ticket is 134.
Stuart sighs.
STUART Nuts. I can’t wait that long. I’ll be right back.
He hurries out of the dry cleaners. The Dry Cleaner cranes his neck as Stuart disappears from sight.
A few moment later, Stuart re-enters… only his hair is combed, he is clean shaven and he carries a plastic bag.
He puts the bag on the counter.
STUART Dry clean only and hurry up. I don’t have all the time in the world.
April 26th, 2007 at 9:35 am
INT. 24 Hour Dry Cleaners – EARLY MORNING
Jason Wheeler enters dragging his laundry bag behind him. Jason is a tall, lean twenty-something with short, messy, black hair. He wears think rimmed glasses that seem to constantly need adjusting. Despite being an imposingly tall figure, Jason carries himself with an air of meakness.
He stops a few steps into the dry-cleaners, becoming aware that he is completely alone. However, the metal carousel holding all the clean, hanging clothes, rotates slowly. The only sound we hear is a soothing hum.
JASON Hello?
The morning sun starts to throw beams of light in through the street-side windows.
JASON Is anyone here?
Jason reaches into his pocket to retrieve his ticket. A shadow passes across the front windows.
Jason spins, startled, pulling his hand quickly from his pocket. Change spills out onto the floor. By the time he looks up, nothing is there.
JASON (off change) Shit.
He kneels down to pick up the change, coin by coin.
From the back of the store we hear a rustling sound.
JASON (looking up) Hello?
The rustling grows louder.
JASON I’m here to pick up…my…
Jason trails off as the rustling sound quickly begins moving towards him. He can now see clothes being buffeted left and right by some unseen force.
Suddenly, a figure breaks free from the hanging clothes and stops, mere feet from Jason. The figure is grotesque. Skin decomposes, eye’s bleed puss, the only sounds escaping are gutteral barks and heavy breathing.
Jason drops his ticket in dreamy slow-motion. Jason turns and with wide-eyes says:
JASON Dear god…
CUT TO BLACK.
April 26th, 2007 at 9:47 am
EXT. DRY CLEANERS — NIGHT
SQUEAMUS tries the door. Locked. He notices the little clock sign in the window — will reopen at 9AM.
He sits down, lights a joint.
April 26th, 2007 at 10:08 am
INT. DRYCLEANERS
There are a couple people in line at the counter and a particularly cute blond standing off to the side. SIMON reaches the front of the line.
DRYCLEANER GUY 1 (looking down at log book)
Drop off or pick up?
SIMON
Pick -
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
Ticket?
SIMON
Ah, actually, I don’t have -
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
What dyour pieces look like?
SIMON
Ah, just um, one pair of black slacks.
DRYCLEANER GUY 1 looks up at SIMON, mildly annoyed.
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
Anything distinguishing about ‘em?
SIMON sneaks a glance over at the blond and catches her eye for a sec. He turns back to DRYCLEANER GUY 1 and lowers his voice a bit.
SIMON
They, they had like a…a stain on them.
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
Uh huh…
SIMON takes another look at the blond and lowers his voice to almost a whisper.
SIMON
A white stain.
DRYCLEANER GUY 1 stares at him blankly.
SIMON
Here.
SIMON indicates a large region of the pants he is wearing in the general crotch vacinity.
BEAT.
DRYCLEANER GUY 1 (loudly)
Ohhhhh! The semen pants!
SIMON flashes a furtive look at the blond who is smiling to herself.
SIMON
Ah, it’s not semen, it’s-
DRYCLEANER GUY 1 (yelling to the back of the shop)
Hey Sully! You got them semen pants back there?
SULLY (from the back of the shop)
What?
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
Those black pants that had semen…
SIMON
It’s not se-
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
-like, all over the front of ‘em!
SULLY
Yeah?
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
This guy’s here to pick em up!
SULLY
A guy’s here to pick up the semen pants?
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
Yeah, this guy says the semen pants are his.
DRYCLEANER GUY 1 (to SIMON, lowering his voice)
Between you, me and the lamp post… (SIMON glances at the blond) I never seen so much semen on a pair of pants in the ten years I been here. (he winks)
SULLY walks up and lays a pair of black pants on the counter.
SULLY
See, good as new.
He pulls a pen out from behind his ear, indicating the affected area with it.
SULLY
You had semen all in this area here and as you can see-
SIMON
It wasn’t semen, it was toothpaste.
SIMON takes a solid look at the blond, satisfied with himself.
SULLY and DRYCLEANER GUY 1 look at each other. SULLY takes a long breath.
SULLY
Son, that wasn’t no toothpaste.
SIMON
No, yeah, it was toothpaste. This organic toothpaste so maybe you never-
SIMON looks to the blond who is clearly enjoying this.
SULLY
No, see, toothpaste we can get out with the normal process. This shit here…we had to use a special cleaning agent.
SIMON
But yeah, it wasn’t semen so-
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
Now you semen, now you don’t.
SIMON
Excuse me?
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
That’s what it’s called. “Now You Semen, Now You Don’t”.
SIMON stares dumbfounded at him.
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
That’ll be thirty five dollars.
SIMON
For one pair of slacks.
DRYCLEANER GUY 1
We normally charge five bucks a piece but, when you’re talking about semen-
SIMON
Fine, great.
He counts out the cash, slaps it on the counter, grabs his pants and turns to leave, taking one last look at the blond. He exits.
April 26th, 2007 at 10:48 am
EXT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
The sign over the seedy building reads: DAN’S WASH & DUNK.
A nondescript sedan pulls into a parking spot.
HENRY, 30s, panther fit, steps out. Tailored pant and business shirt, expensive shoes.
He grabs a new duffle bag from the car trunk, all grace, no wasted movement.
Henry walks past SCRUFFY HOMELESS GUY who sleeps on the pavement, an empty bottle of cheap wine in his hand, a hat with change in front of him.
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
A BELL over the door dings as Henry strolls in.
He carefully looks over the room, notices the emergency exit at the back.
He guarded eyes takes in the old washers and dryers, many with an “Out of Service� sign on them.
He places the duffle bag on a nearby table, UNZIPS, pulls out folded and wrinkle-free business shirts, arranges them in a washer.
He pulls out his wallet, snaps it open. The wallet is devoid of life, no credit cards, ID or photos.
He opens the cash flap to reveal a condom and three $100 bills. He pulls out a bill walks over to the change area, notices it will only accept smaller bills.
EXT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
Henry places the $100 bill in Scruffy Homeless Guy’s pocket, snatches the $3 in change from the hat.
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
Quarters are dropped into the washer. The machine drowns itself with water.
Henry sits on a bench, eyes alert, back straight.
He opens the front pocket of the duffel bag, moves a gun, pulls out a book: HOW TO START A HOME BASED BUSINESS
He flips to CHAPTER SEVEN: YOUR FIRST CUSTOMER
LATER
CHAPTER NINE: NEGOTIATING THE CONTRACT
PUNK TEEN struts in the door, dragging a garbage bag overflowing with wrinkled and dirty laundry.
Henry returns the book to the front pocket of the duffel.
Punk Teen nods to him.
Hand still in duffel, Henry smiles for the first time.
April 26th, 2007 at 11:16 am
Christ, SuperDoobie, why do I have to be the convict?
April 26th, 2007 at 11:19 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – MORNING
An old attendant lifts a black party dress from the rack and expectantly shows it to GREGORY, a slight man of thirty. Gregory’s frame is all right angles, the lines of his suit clean and symmetrical. His forehead glistens, sweat mixing with excess product. As he inspects the dress, his square glasses wobble on his nose.
GREGORY No. I’m sorry. This isn’t the one.
The attendant sighs and checks Gregory’s ticket again. She turns back to the rack.
GREGORY It’s big. Quite large. My daughter used to use it as a roof for her tree fort.
The attendant holds up a floral-print dress.
GREGORY No. No, no no. It has little gems sewn in. I dropped it off last night. Please tell me you haven’t lost it. She’ll kill me.
The attendant walks behind the rack. Gregory’s hands shake as he pushes up his glasses.
GREGORY It’s just a dress. Just a stupid… prom dress. (beat) She’ll kill me.
The attendant returns, dragging something behind her. It is the dress, a swath of glittering fabric so wide it wouldn’t fit in a garment bag. Gregory lights up.
OLD ATTENDANT How could I forget?
GREGORY That’s it! That’s the one. You are my savior, my lord and savior. My wife and I are dancing tonight. (beat) I hope it still fits her.
April 26th, 2007 at 11:24 am
FRANK pulls up to the dry cleaner’s window in a beat-up 1990 Honda Civic. His navy suit and red tie scream “upwardly mobile,” but the fast food wrappers on the floorboard reveal a more humble reality.
April 26th, 2007 at 11:52 am
EXT. DIME – A – DOZEN DRY CLEANING – DAY
CHRIS HERSTON, 38, a Ken doll, enters the dry cleaners. His suit, all business. The lipstick stained shirt he’s wearing, all pleasure. Not to mention his unzipped fly, and the patch of tusseled hair on the back of his head. He removes his jacket and shirt. Hands the shirt and a ticket to the dry cleaner. Like clockwork she hands him a fresh white shirt, and a new ticket. He dresses in front of her, winks, and then leaves.
April 26th, 2007 at 11:58 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
JIM DAFOE, 50s, enters. Being manager at a junk-mail warehouse for the past ten years has turned him into a Grade A prick. He fires guys for not calling him “Mister” when greeting him first thing in the morning. He absolutely takes no shit.
The intimidating manager approaches the front counter where a WOMAN stands. Behind the counter is the owner of the dry cleaners, MR. PIZZO, 70s. They both look at Jim.
As he grabs his pressed sports jacket from the counter, Jim looks at the woman and says:
JIM (nervous) Honey? Would you mind if I took a raincheck tonight? I was kinda hoping to see the playoff game with Mike and Todd.
Just the sound of his voice makes the woman, ETHEL DAFOE, 40s, want to knock his teeth down his throat.
ETHEL (irritated) Raincheck? Are you kidding me? Listen, you can run your dusty ass warehouse, but I run things at home. Rainchecks, they don’t exist in my house. You’re eating dinner with me tonight. To hell with those bitches, Todd and Mike. I’m already pissed because I had to pay ten bucks to press that piece of shit jacket. Just go wait in the car before I burst a blood vessel again.
JIM (quick to please) Okay, honey. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you. I just figured I’d run it by you.
ETHEL Well, you asked and I answered. The answer is: NO. Fuck no.
JIM Okay.
Holding his sports jacket, the Grade A prick exits; feeling a little glum, and a bit embarrassed.
April 26th, 2007 at 12:01 pm
Binslab walks into the dry cleaning shop. He is middle-eastern, in his late twenties. He has a grizzled appearence with soiled clothes. On a better day he is an attractive man.
His silence is in contrast to the commotion and bustle of the busy dry-cleaning shop. He is expressionless, perhaps a hint of resolve.
He obliviously deflects the shoulders of strangers that bump against him in the shop. Patrons go about their normal big-city life tasks. Cell phones and newspapers as they wait. Binslab is next in line.
The counter girl, also middle-eastern, greets him. He walks up to the counter extending his ticket in his hand.
A series of wires and duct tape revealed as his coat sleeve slides up his arm. Her smile dissapears as she realizes.
An obliterating EXPLOSION.
Fade out
TITLE CARD: Nine months earlier
Binslab sits at a dinner with his little girl, Waleeda. Magda, his wife, sits down with them as she places a casserole dish on the table. Binslab is lightly horseplaying with his daughter of six years.
Waleeda shoots them both a corrective look. Binslad winks at Waleeda as she smiles back a beautiful, toothless grin at him.
April 26th, 2007 at 12:30 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS
Stephanie doodles on a small piece of a paper at the counter. She blows a large bubble with her pink bubble gum. From the front of the store comes the CHIME of an entering customer.
Stephanie looks up to find a pale, pimpled face. Framed by coke-bottle glasses and long greasy hair, it sits atop a wire thin frame of a body adorned with far too much Nintendo apparel.
STEPH The usual?
The man nods. A clammy, shaking hand places a stark white shirt down on the counter. Stephanie blows a bored bubble.
She picks up the shirt and turns to hang it up against the back wall of the store. It is then that she notices that the dry cleaning tag, the one that she herself attached just two days before, has not been removed. The shirt has not been worn.
She smiles to herself and pretends to drop the shirt. She bends slowly to retrieve it, all the while feeling the longing gaze of the large adolescent behind her. She knows her thong is sticking out; oops.
Shirt in hand, she stands quickly, hangs it up, and turns to face him. She blows another bored bubble. It pops.
STEPH A dollar fifty.
The man reaches into his faded jean pocket and attempts to pull out a ten. He struggles, visibly shaken. Stephanie sighs. After a moment, she takes the cash and turns to the register.
Before she can even consider how much change she owes the man, the door CHIMES again and the store is empty.
She smiles.
April 26th, 2007 at 12:46 pm
MIDMORNING INT: Quick to mmmPress cleaners
Yellowed smoke-stained ceiling tiles, exposed fluorescent bulbs, chipped 12″ x 12″ asbestos floor tiles. A summer storm projects rhythmic pellets of warm rain against the cracked pane of window glass. An ancient metal pedestal fan whips furiously about in the corner.
CALVIN LEARY CARTER (33) has drifted away from the counter, apparently lost in thought. His well-manicured hand, cups the cold black metal security bars attached to the open front door. The silver band on his finger makes an annoying scraping sound as he slides his hand up and down. A shot of the floor shows a small puddle forming around his Birkenstock sandals.
The cleaner bursts through from behind a beaded curtain and gingerly places a small neatly-wrapped package in white butcher paper next to the register.
THE CLEANER: Sir? … it’s done
Cal spins sharply around. His chin length knotty, wet tendrils smack against his cheek.
CAL: Great! Spectacular… (he adjusts his round framed glassed) Ok, how much I owe you?
Slicking back his wet mop for the hundredth time, Cal removes a worn brown leather wallet from the pocket of his cargo shorts.
THE CLEANER: (stares at the register and taps his fingers in a frantic fashion) well, uh. This is a new one on me. I’ve never been asked to do THAT before. I’m not sure what to charge…
He begins to rock back and forth in an antsy manner.
With Cal’s wallet flipped open we see an official NASA identification card clearly displaying a photo of a short haired version of our “hero” in a classic black suit and bold red tie. He pulls out two twenty dollar bills and slides them across the cigarette-burned laminate countertop.
CAL: I think that’s fair. You…?
THE CLEANER: Yeah. On one condition… you don’t ever step foot through my door again.
CAL chuckles, slides the small, white package – delicately – into his shoulder bag and saunters out the front door into the raging storm.
April 26th, 2007 at 12:58 pm
INT. TWO DOLLAR DRY CLEANERS – DAY
GEORGE HAGAN (27) steps through the door with a half-baked swagger. He’s wearing dog tags from the Iraqi War around his neck; the kind of guy with the best of intentions.
GEORGE (plops his ticket down): I’m here to pick up some dry cleaning.
A cute Korean dry-cleaner MARIAM (25) takes his ticket with a smile. Once she notices it, her face turns cold.
MARIAM: Sir, you can’t dry clean animal.
GEORGE: Excuse me?
MARIAM: You brought in bag with cat in it. Been trying to call you.
GEORGE: What are you talking about?
She lifts up a black duffel bag and places it on the counter. A Calico cat’s head emerges like the periscope of a threatened submarine.
GEORGE: Ah, that’s Casanova.
MARIAM: Who is Casanova?
GEORGE (pointing at cat): He is. You can’t dry clean a cat, huh?
MARIAM (smiles confused): No.
GEORGE (to Casanova): I told you. You wouldn’t listen.
Casanova meows in defiance.
GEORGE (to Casanova): Hey, I’m sorry. She says you can’t get a wash. I’ll make it up to you. How’s dinner sound? You, me, and your friend here?(another meow) You don’t like her? Fine. It can be just us. What was that?
MARIAM: Sir!
GEORGE: He says that he would be happy if you came along for dinner. Do it for him. The poor cat.
MARIAM: You the craziest man that ever come here.
GEORGE (pointing at Casanova): What about him? He’s been stirring up trouble since I got here.
MARIAM: My boss will be back soon. I need you to leave.
GEORGE: No dinner?
Beat. George heads for the door.
MARIAM: Your cat?
GEORGE: He betrayed me. Go ahead and eat him.
George exits. Mariam jiggles the bag. Casanova jumps out and slips through the door right as it closes.
April 26th, 2007 at 1:01 pm
The door opens with an automatic bell sound – TING.
We are at the Dry Cleaner’s.
DR. DESAI enters, thick silver hair but a youthful face. The door shuts softly behind him.
He immidiately spots TIKO, 9-10 , a chubby pre-teen standing uncomfortably and peering at him from behind the counter.
He makes his way towards her, Tiko gives him a hesitant smile. He looks over his shoulder as he hands her a pink receipt, not sure why she looks so unnerved.
Tiko studies the receipt.
TIKO Pick up?
DR. DESAI Yes?
Tiko glances at the reciept again and then looks back at him. She does not move. He looks back at her skeptically.
TIKO Are you a medical doctor?
DR. DESAI Yes?
Tiko lights up with relief.
TIKO You have to help me, please!
Before Dr. Desai can respond. Tiko trots around the counter to his side and stands in front of him. He is not sure where this is going.
TIKO Look…
With that, she lifts up her knee length skirt. Dr. Desai gapes as she displays her inner theigh – Blood flows down her theigh, down her leg. Her white sock is soaked red.
Dr. Desai looks at her incredously. He can’t help noticing her small breasts, they sit on top of a big belly.
TIKO It started this morning…I don’t want to tell my mommy, she works all night…Am I dying?
Dr. Desai is searching for words. Tiko’s eyes well up and a tear begins down her cheek.
TIKO I am a bad kid.
Dr. Desai’s face softens, he extends his hand and wipes the tear off of Tiko’s face.
TING!
Both look towards the door.
April 26th, 2007 at 1:17 pm
correction of previous submission*
Binslab walks into the dry cleaning shop. He is middle-eastern, in his late twenties. He has a grizzled appearence with soiled clothes. On a better day he is an attractive man.
His silence is in contrast to the commotion and bustle of the busy dry-cleaning shop. He is expressionless, perhaps a hint of resolve.
He obliviously deflects the shoulders of strangers that bump against him in the shop. Patrons go about their normal big-city life tasks. Cell phones and newspapers as they wait. Binslab is next in line.
The counter girl, also middle-eastern, greets him. He walks up to the counter extending his ticket in his hand.
A series of wires and duct tape revealed as his coat sleeve slides up his arm. Her smile dissapears as she realizes.
An obliterating EXPLOSION.
Fade out
TITLE CARD: Nine months earlier
Binslab sits at a dinner with his little girl, Waleeda. Magda, his wife, sits down with them as she places a casserole dish on the table. Binslab is lightly horseplaying with his daughter of six years.
Magda shoots them both a corrective look. Binslab winks at Waleeda as she smiles back a beautiful, toothless grin at him.
April 26th, 2007 at 1:39 pm
Perhaps the most challenging part of being disabled is the chores. Things people take for granted and complete through a normal day. For EDWARD LANSDOWNE these tasks felt no different. He had been disabled since birth, arms to brush his teeth, his hair, to tie his shoelaces; did not exist. He held his place in line with a confidence that had weathered abuse and ridicule from pre-school to the present. Three oxford-white, button-downs maintained their place on the hangers. They had treated him well, taking abuse from orange-juice, ketchup and an 19 year-old merlot.
Edward cast aside the perplexed look on another customer’s face as he approached the cashier. DONALD took the three shirts from Edward’s mouth and spoke in a tone of understanding and equality.
DONALD Eddy, ever think of wearing a bib?
EDWARD You’d go out of business if I wore a bib. You shouldn’t complain.
meh?
April 26th, 2007 at 1:45 pm
His droopy eyelids remain fixed to the psychedelic swirls of the washing machines. There’s no denying it; Larry is a lonely man.
April 26th, 2007 at 2:32 pm
INT. DRY CLEANER’S–DAY
MARKUS JOHNSON shambles up to the counter, drunk. Light glints off his plain wedding band as he wipes away tears with the sleeve of his worn UCLA hoodie. He clutches a small bundle to his chest. He hesitates, then spreads it lovingly across the counter. It’s a handmade baby blanket, bloodstained, with a single bullet hole.
April 26th, 2007 at 3:09 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS – NIGHT
JOE MILWAUKEE (30) stumbles through the front doors with a beer in hand. His preppy Polo has a hole in the back and the bottom of his jeans are worn down. An OBESE EMPLOYEE (20) nods in his direction.
OBESE EMPLOYEE Do you have a ticket, bro?
JOE For what?
OBESE EMPLOYEE Your laundry.
JOE My laundry? Right. Right.
Joe produces a dog eared ticket and hands it to Obese Employee.
OBESE EMPLOYEE Fred?
JOE No, it’s Joe. Where do you get Fred?
OBESE EMPLOYEE You’ve got some terrible handwriting, man.
JOE I type everything. Cut me some fucking slack.
OBESE EMPLOYEE (referring to the bottle) Is that alcoholic?
JOE Last time I checked.
OBESE EMPLOYEE I’m not sure you can have that in here.
Joe tosses it in the trash can. Obese Employee wanders in the back, presumably to get his laundry. Joe wanders over to the vending machine and surveys the available munchies. Obese Employee returns with a large bag of clothes.
OBESE EMPLOYEE That will be 32.15, bro.
JOE Come again?
OBESE EMPLOYEE 32.15.
JOE For clothes…?
OBESE EMPLOYEE Your clothes.
JOE There must be some mistake.
OBESE EMPLOYEE (looks at paperwork) It seems there were some extra fees. You had too many blue items.
JOE Blue items? What the hell does that even mean?
OBESE EMPLOYEE It’s harder to clean blue clothes.
JOE There’s no way that’s possible.
Obese Employee points at a large sign behind him. It reads: IF YOU HAVE MORE THAN TEN BLUE ITEMS, AN ADDITIONAL FEE WILL BE CHARGED.
JOE (cont’d) Those clothes didn’t even cost thirty dollars. I got them on a clearance rack.
OBESE EMPLOYEE That’s not my fault.
JOE You can keep them.
Joe leaves. Obese Employee stands there for a moment. Deadpan.
OBESE EMPLOYEE Huh.
FADE TO BLACK
April 26th, 2007 at 3:26 pm
INT. RICARDO’S LAUNDRY SERVICE – NIGHT
JIMMY CARTER, a man that needs no introduction, enters the room with a scowl on his face.
April 26th, 2007 at 3:35 pm
DUNCAN DEXTER’S shoulders cave from the weight of his stuffed and tattered canvas backpack. He’s young, 30s, but looks much older. His eyes sunken, dark and his pallor is a yellowish grey. He wears large, inflated headphones—Radioshack, not Bose—over his unusually small, square head. The cut headphone cord dangles near a belt loop of his soiled cords. His hiking boots and hoodie are a decade old. His skittish nature makes him tuck, duck and flinch. Even unprovoked, he self-protects.
He opens the door to Lady Ting’s Dry Cleaners. Teeny bells play a happy jingle and a smiling ATTENDANT emerges from behind a thin curtain.
ATTENDANT Oh! Mister Dex! Nice see you. Suit ready. Armani. Nice…
Dexter nods.
ATTENDANT You dodder? Still coma sleep?
Dexter shakes his head.
ATTENDANT She die?
DEXTER Unplugged at daybreak. Rise and die.
ATTENDANT I get suit.
April 26th, 2007 at 3:46 pm
(continued)
JIMMY CARTER Listen up, bitches. I just ate some clam chowder and it doesn’t agree with me. No time to dilly dally. Get me my laundry, make sure there’s an executive discount, and don’t give me any guff. (beat) The clock’s tickin’.
April 26th, 2007 at 3:55 pm
EXT. DRIVE THROUGH DRY CLEANERS – DAY
A shabby looking Wendy’s on a cloudy day. Under the big red “Wendy’s” sign is the white sign where we see printed in black block letters: “DRY CLEANERS.” A 1987 Yugo pulls around hastily to the old speaker box.
INT. DRY CLEANERS – CONTINUOUS
TARA, 20’s, bored out of her mind, sits at the pick-up window amidst racks of clothes playing with her gum while her father, BEN assists a CUSTOMER.
MAN’S VOICE (through speaker) Yo, hello! I’d like a quarter pounder with cheese, a large fry…
Tara rolls her eyes.
TARA Dad! That thing is STILL broken?
BEN Tara please, can you deal with this? I am not paying you to chew gum.
MAN’S VOICE (through speaker) …let’s see, uh, some McNuggets…
Tara cranes her head out the window, but can’t see anyone.
MAN’S VOICE (through speaker) …and a large coca-cola. How much?
TARA (yelling) Sir? Hello, this is NOT McDonald’s! We are a dry cleaner!
Silence. Suddenly, the car veers around to Tara’s window. She pulls her head back inside sharply. The car, sputtering, comes to a halt and reveals driver LARRY SWABACK, 30’s, wearing Ray Bans and his grandfather’s 3-piece suit, chewing on a toothpick. Cutting his mid-length greasy blonde locks would serve him very well. In Larry’s left hand, a dry cleaning ticket is extended a bit too close to Tara’s face.
TARA (eye roll) Larry.
LARRY (big laugh) Never get tired o’ that one! (deep sigh) Ah, she’s a beauty today, isn’t she?
Tara follows Larry’s eyes to the cloudy sky. She shakes her head, but gives a slight smile as she takes his ticket.
April 26th, 2007 at 6:02 pm
INT. SEWER TUNNEL
And it’s a big tunnel, too. Wide enough for a sidewalk-y platform on the edge of the river of sludge heading to the ocean. The strange thing is that there’s a small storefront on this underground sidewalk, like one of those tiny, barely-noticeable places in the West Village.
A MAN in a track suit that costs more than your mortgage payment walks up, looks behind him to make sure that no one’s on his tail, and ducks in the door.
INT. SUPER CLEANERS
Here’s a place that looks out of place: it’s a dry cleaners, complete with the conveyor belt of clothes that vanishes into the dim recesses, the 75-year-old Singer waiting for pants to hem, and the counter-top bell.
The MAN enters, gingerly closing the door behind him. It’s been a while since OLIVER made his vast fortune, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him. His blond hair just long enough so that he doesn’t look like a Suit, his goatee neatly tousled, Oliver is in excellent shape…even though his exercise gear looks like it’s never been exercised in. He rummages in his pockets for something.
ARIADNE (OFF) No need, sir. Your clothes are ready.
ARIADNE, an old woman with a black silk sash covering her eyes, comes walking over. She doesn’t bump into anything.
OLIVER How do you do that, Ari? You never let me get a word out…
Ariadne presses a button attached to the clothes conveyor belt, and the parade of plastic-covered togs begins.
ARIADNE It’s the hundred-dollar soap and Old Spice, Mr. Queen. Dead slumming-billionaire giveaway. Ah, here we go.
Ariadne pulls a hanger from the belt. All we can see is a hint of green beneath the plastic clothes condom.
OLIVER Sorry, Ari. It was a rough week.
ARIADNE That what we do here, Mr. Queen. Repair tough weeks. Now, the slices were easy enough to mend, as were the punctures. Spear?
OLIVER Spiked gate.
ARIADNE Of course. The burns were harder. I just hope the dye matches. Hard for me to tell, you know.
Ariadne hangs the clothes on a rod on the counter, and we finally see what they’re talking about. It’s an emerald green vest-y jerkin thing, with laces criss-crossing the chest. A pair of green boots are slung over the hanger.
It’s GREEN ARROW’s costume.
OLIVER Looks perfect. Put it on the League account?
ARIADNE Of course.
OLIVER Um, got someplace I could change?
April 26th, 2007 at 6:18 pm
Behind an oak stained counter is a carousel of freshly pressed suits & newly steamed cocktail dresses in their transparent body bags, all stirring in circles, waiting for someone to stop the ride. We hear a distant ring of an antique bell followed by the slam of a screen door. Walking into view between us & the counter is Ray. The back of his body has a sinister stare, we pray that he doesn’t turn around. His slick black hair is accentuated by his leather jacket. A chain links from the right shoulder of the jacket, down to the left hip. A single heart shaped charm dangles like a lure off the chain at the middle of his back. The name ‘Paul’ is inscribed into the heart.
Ray’s arm rises up over a service bell on the counter. His hand comes down & with utmost care, the very tip of his index finger gently taps the top of the bell. The sharp ding echos in the room. Ray forces a short breath out his nose in a small chuckle of laughter to himself. A clerk comes from a back room & stands before Ray. “May I help you?” Ray puts his hands into his pockets. “I’m here for a pick-up.” He pulls out a slip of paper & slides it across the counter. The clerk picks it up & walks to the back room he came out of. He returns with a beautiful black suit draped over his arms. Even through the plastic it looks elegant. “This the one sir?” Ray takes in a shaky breath. “Yes.” The clerk gives Ray a questionable look. He lays the suit on the counter & pushes a few buttons on the cash register. The clerk looks down at the suit, “This is very nice.” Ray ignores the comment & reaches for his wallet & paws through a few bills. He hands the clerk the money & replies. “It belonged to my brother, Paul.”
April 26th, 2007 at 6:36 pm
AlEX stands waiting for the dry cleaning conveyor belt to stop on his number.
A full-length mirror next to the counter offers a perfect opportunity for another quick assessment.
Sharply dressed, lean and reasonably good shape for thirty something. Not a bad looking guy he thinks…for a woman.
This plan just might work.
April 26th, 2007 at 6:45 pm
INT. DRY-CLEANERS – DAY
SEBASTIAN, late 60’s, slowly saunters into the run down dry cleaners. His clothes are old and dirty, little more than rags. As he steps into the light we see a large scar down the left side of his weathered, un-shaven face.
He holds a dirty brown sack in one hand and a well-thumbed copy of Karl Marx’s Capital in the other. He sits and stares as the dryer slowly spin-dries all his worldly positions.
April 26th, 2007 at 6:48 pm
“Felix says: Christ, SuperDoobie, why do I have to be the convict?”
LOL. Sorry, Felix. You almost dodged the bullet: Originally you were SKULL BOY (as evidenced by the dialogue tag I forgot to change). I randomly grabbed your name from a googled list of popular Mexican male names. It’s only fair that you include a SuperDoobie in your scene.
April 26th, 2007 at 8:22 pm
Mr. Cling tosses a load into a washer like he’s done this every minute of every day of his life. In fact, we might not be that far off. For sixty years, he’s operated this mom-n-pop haven of lint and loose change. Never missing a day to sickness. Nor terrorism. Nor the two tornadoes that have ripped through his tiny town. But Mr. Cling won’t tell you it’s because he loves his job. Instead, he’ll tell you he was cursed on his birth certificate. Ladies and Gentlemen, meet STATIC CLING. Eighty-three years old and about to wash the last pair of jeans for the rest of his life.
April 26th, 2007 at 8:39 pm
INT. DRY CLEANER’S – NIGHT
Very dark. There’s something spooky about the hanging silhouettes of clothes.
Through the glass front door, we see MITCH, a teenaged boy with a lock pick. The black shoe polish he’s spread over his face doesn’t quite hide the layers of freckles. In his free hand is the balaclava that he decided was slightly overboard.
The door opens with a click. Mitch tip-toes in and immediately knocks over a vase. Sigh of relief when the carpet saves it from smashing. He carefully puts it back where it belongs, before creeping over to the racks of freshly washed clothes.
He rifles through them, choosing a black leather jacket, which he doesn’t put on, instead holding it carefully as he sneaks out of the store.
April 26th, 2007 at 9:16 pm
EXT. CITY STREET — DAY
The THUCK-THUCK-THUCK of a CHANNEL 11 NEWS HELICOPTER precedes its appearance.
It is now directly overhead and very loud, flying strangely low in the sky.
There is a METALLIC GRINDING sound as a billowing CLOUD OF DARK SMOKE and FLAMES erupt beneath its blades.
The thing yaws and drifts and begins to float downward in a mesmerizing agonal descent before it…
..Crash-lands on the flat roof of RELIABLE DRY CLEANERS just as…
…ART TAYLOR enters the store, obliviously listening to his mp3 player through earphones plugged into his ear canals as he scans a music magazine.
INT. RELIABLE DRY CLEANER–DAY
The ENGINE ROAR of the helicopter rumbles through the building like an earthquake in progress.
Fluorescent fixtures on the ceiling crack and flicker. Grey dust hangs in the air. Debris covers the plastic-wrapped clothes hanging alphabetically on the conveyor. Chunks of drywall fall. Employees visible only as shadows and barely audible cough and call to one another and to Jesus in frightened Spanish as they run out a back door.
The noise abates, except for the sound of FOOTSTEPS coming down stairs somewhere in the back of the store and the BUZZING of the fluorescent tubes. The FOOTSTEPS get louder.
Art stands at the counter. He pulls a yellow receipt out of his pocket.
A man appears on the other side. He has an enormous handlebar mustache and is wearing a CHANNEL 11 NEWS jacket, a baseball cap, and sunglasses.
Art hands him the receipt.
ART Hi. Couple shirts and a pair of jeans.
April 26th, 2007 at 9:22 pm
INT. SPEEDY DRY-CLEANERS – MONDAY MORNING
RICK walks in. 40’s, classically handsome and clean-shaven, his hair is perfectly styled and graying at the temples like he walked out of a Jack Kirby comic book. Below the neck is a different story. He wears a badly bruised tuxedo, covered in a patchwork of dirt, grime, something resembling oil and something that more than resembles blood. He’s missing his right shoe and cradles a wet, battered paper grocery bag.
The Clerk behind the counter looks up from his newspaper as Rick walks over and sets the bag down with a THUD that sounds like it’s carrying a cantaloupe and a pipe wrench. He fishes a claim ticket out of his jacket pocket.
RICK I’ve got a pick up.
The Clerk takes the ticket and flips a switch behind the counter as a rack of clothes starts to spin.
The clothes march in formation, jerking to a stop when the Clerk hits the switch again. He grabs a hanger off the rack and lays out a white wedding dress on the counter in front of Rick.
Money is exchanged and Rick walks toward the door as the Clerk goes back to his newspaper. Rick stops in mid-step and turns around.
RICK How long would it take to clean this tuxedo?
CLERK One hour or your money back.
Rick looks at his watch. It’s completely shattered.
RICK Can you clean it now, while I wait?
CLERK What will you wear while you’re waiting?
RICK My underwear, I guess. I’m not shy.
The Clerk lowers his newspaper.
CLERK Maybe I am.
RICK I’ll stand in the corner to protect your delicate sensibilities. And I’ll tip well.
CLERK Boxers or briefs?
RICK Boxers. Blue. Cotton. Nothing kinky.
CLERK (giving the tux a once-over) We can’t get all the stains out.
RICK That’s alright. Where I’m going it won’t make a difference.
April 26th, 2007 at 9:24 pm
INT. A1 Dry Cleaners – DAY
JASON It’s that writer guy. He’s back.
MANAGER (O.S) Call him ‘Sir’. He likes that.
Jason watches a large ball of dirty underwear stagger drunkenly across the road. Cars are HONKING as JOHN SEPTEMBER (36) SMASHES the glass door open. He drops his K-Mart grippers on the counter.
JOHN Clean my stains.
COUNTER-BOY Yes sir. You can trust me. I’ll do them personally.
April 26th, 2007 at 9:29 pm
There’s nothing worse than pressing “submit” and then spotting a mistake in your submission! I called my character JASON in one line and COUNTER-BOY in another. Bummer.
April 26th, 2007 at 11:06 pm
INT. DRY CLEANER – NIGHT
SALSA from a cheap stereo. GARCIA, as run down as Puerto Rico, does this day´s accounting. A shining limo stops in front of the joint. Garcia looks up. He winces.
The DRIVER, British from head to toe although he´s from Brooklyn, jumps out, opens the back door of the car. And here he comes, KYLE, a gorilla trapped inside an expensive suit, trying to behave humanly but still – his eyes can´t hide the animal. He´s a silverback and he´s proud of it.
April 27th, 2007 at 12:41 am
Billy, early 20s, takes a break from cussing into his cellphone and chugging a redbull to drop a ticket on the counter and slam the bell a couple of times. He’s a big tub of goo with no inside voice and a sweating issue. Maybe if he ever said ‘thank you’ the girl behind the counter would tell him his fly was down. Again.
April 27th, 2007 at 3:53 am
INT-DRY CLEANERS – MORNING
The door opens and without stepping in, FRED STEWART leans his head across the threshold, and cautiously surveys the store. He is mid-40s, his hair is between fashionably short and stylishly long, but currently neither fashionable nor stylish. He looks directly at the camera.
FRED
Thank goodness no one is here. Have you noticed all the weirdos who come in this one dry cleaning store? AND they all know the name of the people who work here? I have never known the name of the person who works at my dry cleaners! Yesterday, this place was crawling with naked or mostly-naked, muscular and dangerous men. What was that about? Today it seems that the weird of the world have started picking-up their cleaning. It seems like everyone who comes in here has never really been in a dry cleaner’s before. I don’t get it, and I feel really sorry for the owner of the store.
April 27th, 2007 at 6:17 am
EXT. STREET – DAY
TOBY (34) shuffles about outside a dry-cleaners, waiting for the store to open. He pulls up the collar on his dinner jacket, to block out the early morning chill. Even though he looks like he’s been sleeping in his tuxedo for days you could never call him ugly or scruffy and Toby knows it.
Lights come on in the store, prompting Toby to start going through his pockets. Rapdily his search becomes frantic, as he checks every conceivable hiding place. He even takes off his left shoe – nothing in there but a dollar.
Totally dejected, Toby slumps down on the curb and starts to put on his shoe, until he is rudly interuppted by someone shoving a dry-cleaning ticket in his face.
MAN O/S Looking for this?
Toby looks up and comes face to face with himself.
April 27th, 2007 at 7:22 am
John, I noticed there were two submissions from “George” within minutes of each other. I hope I didn’t inadvertently click on someone else’ entry and mess things up for you. Just for clarity, my submission started, “Alex stands waiting…”
Thanks for this fun exercise.
April 27th, 2007 at 7:27 am
INT. QUON’S DRYCLEANING – DAY
HAN QHON, drycleaning counter man, pages through a Chinese newspaper.
The DING of the door opening causes him to look up.
MATT GORING, punk accountant, enters. His immaculate three-piece suit is topped by an incongruous pink mohawk and pierced nose.
April 27th, 2007 at 7:29 am
Gun in hand, Simon Lucas, 32, rushes into Imperial Dry Cleaning. He’s a short man, who’s had a few too many servings of okra and fried chicken. He catches his breath, smiles at the CLERK and the CUSTOMER. He turns and locks the door. Draws the shades. Simon faces the clerk again. He runs a hand through his greasy, sweaty hair as the clerk hands the customer his change. Simon nods at the customer, then approaches the clerk. Drops a clear plastic bag on the counter. Blood drips out of the bottom from the clown suit inside. The clerk stares at it for a moment before looking up at Simon.
Simon He wasn’t funny.
The clerk shakes his head, not again. A GUN SHOT EXPLODES outside, as the window behind Simon SHATTERS.
April 27th, 2007 at 7:54 am
INT. Dry Cleaners – Early Morning
It is early morning and the sun is blinding through the slats in the windows. The door chimes ring as a man in his late-30s staggers in. He is ruggedly handsome and dressed in a dark suit and white shirt. He is nervous, like he’s afraid of being followed. This is VERDAN DUNN and he has just killed his wife. He limps up to the counter as the DRY CLEANING ATTENDANT comes out from the back of the store.
ATTENDANT: Mr. Dunn! Lovely morning.
DUNN: Sure.
DUNN takes a dry cleaning stub out of his pocket and puts it on the counter. His hand leaves behind a bloody stain. Without noticing the blood, the ATTENDANT picks the ticket up and goes around the back to collect the clothes.
ATTENDANT (O/S): Your wife’s not with you today?
DUNN tries to wipe the blood off the counter with his jacket sleeve, but he makes the stain worse.
DUNN: We had a bit of a…disagreement.
April 27th, 2007 at 8:10 am
INT. APPLE CLEANERS – MID-AFTERNOON
MRS. APPLE is sitting behind the counter, watching a soap opera while flipping through a copy of Cosmo. She hears A CAR pull up outside, and turns to look.
She shakes her head as a very old man limps out of the driver’s seat.
The man drags himself to the door. We can see his face now, wrinkled, lopsided, and desperately in need of a wash.
As he opens the door, we his thin, grinding wheeze. He drags himself to counter, then slowly, very slowly, starts checking each pocket in his coat.
MRS. APPLE It’s alright, Mr. West, I know who you are.
MR. WEST keeps feeling around, searching. Mrs. Apple starts looking him up on her computer.
MR. WEST Oh…I know…I…
He keeps searching, oblivious to the rest of his sentence.
MRS. APPLE I got it right here, Mr. West.
She turns around and turns on the clothes rack, and thousands of shirts and pants and dresses start whizzing by.
Behind her, Mr. West is struggling to pull something out of his coat.
Mrs. Apple stops the rack, and reaches up to grab a pair of pants.
She turns around, and her face goes white.
Mr. West is pointing a pistol straight at her head.
MR. WEST All the… (wheeze) money, please.
April 27th, 2007 at 8:43 am
INT. DRY CLEANER’S- DAY
The front door swings open. BOB, 47, stumbles in. He’s frozen to the spot, his three strand comb-over clinging to his shiny scalp. He squints at-
-the DRY CLEANER who hasn’t looked up from the paper he reads behind the counter.
Bob gulps. It’s audible. He takes one step forward, then another, his feet like blocks of concrete.
The dry cleaner laughs at something he reads in the paper.
Bob makes it to the counter. A muffled cough escapes from behind his thin lips.
The dry cleaner peers into the long face in front of him.
Beat…
Bob gulps again. It’s very AUDIBLE this time.
THE DRY CLEANER Hi?
Bob clears his throat.
BOB Hi…
THE DRY CLEANER Here for pick-up?
Bob nods his head, up and down, up and down.
BOB There’s something else.
He stops his nodding. He gulps a third time. It’s now down right disgusting to hear his dry-lump saliva make it down his skinny throat.
The dry cleaner shakes his head.
THE DRY CLEANER Hold on here a sec- Hold on here for just a god damn sec!
He glares into Bob’s beady browns…
THE DRY CLEANER (CONT’D) Are you robbing me?
Beat.
Bob nods, slowly…
The dry cleaner wipes a hand down his face. He’s pissed.
THE DRY CLEANER And did I clean your clothes?
Bob nods, yes.
THE DRY CLEANER (CONT’D) And did I press ‘em?
Bob nods again, yes.
The dry cleaner takes a deep breath.
THE DRY CLEANER Man, that’s cold.
Beat…
…
…
BOB So…?
The dry cleaner pops a look into Bob’s face.
THE DRY CLEANER Right. Right. But, before we do this, take a look out the front.
Bob turns, he squints out the window.
He spins back to the dry cleaner. He shrugs.
THE DRY CLEANER Across the street.
Bob reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out a thick-lensed set of glasses.
ACROSS THE STREET
is a POLICE STATION. Some nasty cops gather in a chatting circle outside of the building.
Bob takes off his glasses. Tears have formed on the lip of each eye.
He takes a breath.
He swivels back to the dry cleaner, reaches into his pocket. Bob pulls out a yellow stub.
The Dry Cleaner snatches it. He holds it right up to Bob’s face and-
-slowly tears the ticket in half.
When he’s finished his execution, the dry cleaner snarls-
THE DRY CLEANER Now get outta my store!
Bob bows his head and marches out the front door.
April 27th, 2007 at 9:01 am
Allan Keyes, mid-thirties and ruggedly plain, walks into the dry cleaners. His too-tight jacket and worn jeans reveal his age and his lack of acceptance of it. He could easily be picking up the dry cleaning for his boss as he looks like he doesn’t really have much clothing that would need it.
April 27th, 2007 at 9:19 am
EXT. STEELTON DRY CLEANING – DAY Ricky licks his melting ice cream cone and approaches the door.
RICKY (V.O.) While mom got her hair done at the salon I liked to hang out at the cleaners, because A: I liked the smell better and B: there was never anyone around to pinch my cheeks and ask me about school…
INT. STEELTON DRY CLEANING Ricky enters and sees a towering statue of a man standing by the counter.
RICKY (V.O.) Until today. There he was, in the flesh, not ten feet away, SALVATORE PASCUZZO. I can’t believe I’m in the same room as “Sal The Slicer.” Maybe if I just moved over…
Ricky moves to the corner by the window.
SAL Hey, kid, what flavor dat?
Ricky squeezes the cone so hard, the ice cream head falls off. He stares at Sal’s imported leather shoes, afraid to look any further up the pin-striped pants.
SAL I’m talking to you.
Ricky raises his head and meets a pair of ice cold eyes and a face-splitting grin.
SAL Looked like pistacchio, my favorite.
A CLERK arrives from a back room with a hanger of shirts.
CLERK I couldn’t get the blood out of the –
Sal grabs the shirts and moves fast towards Ricky. Ricky steps aside.
SAL Forget about it, I shouldn’t been wearing it at work anyway.
Sal winks at Ricky and exits. Ricky moves to the door and watches Sal.
RICKY (V.O.) I could still smell his cologne as I watched him cross the street and go back inside the butcher shop. Wait until I tell Kevin I finally met him.
April 27th, 2007 at 9:44 am
FRANK T. WILLIAMS, with a well-defined part in his hair and manicured nails, enters the store. His appearance suggests money, but he tries not to make it as obvious.
The CLERK, mid 20s, Not Asian, notices him and quickly heads to the backroom.
Clerk Just like clockwork.
Frank nods. The clerk produces his garments. Frank examines his clothes.
Frank This one isn’t mine.
He holds out a white button up shirt.
Clerk Your wife dropped that off.
The clerk sees a tinge of red enter Frank’s face then disappear.
Frank Oh, right.
Clerk That was some stain too. Red wine is a toughie.
Frank (half grin) Cocktail party.
He picks up the clothes and briskly exits the store.
April 27th, 2007 at 10:31 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS—EVENING
GRUNGY MAN pushes past crowd of CUSTOMERS as he breaks for the glass door. Barefoot. Dirt-stained shorts. And tee-shirt fresh from the hamper.
His eyes are puffy and red— hasn’t showered or shaved in days. He’s a zombie born of coffee, cigarettes and satellite TV. More customers dawdle inside as he pushes past them toward…
EXT. PARKING LOT—SAME
GRUNGY MAN pops open the trunk to his expensive European sedan.
Thrusts the collection of plastic-wrapped clothes on wire hangers onto the floorboard.
Searches through the massive pile of freshly Martinized suit jackets, expensive slacks and an endless number of blue oxford shirts. Finally he rips one from the clear plastic cover.
He examines it again, just to be sure. On the front are several brown spots.
He searches the parking lot and races for the trashcan. Stuffs the shirt inside.
He jumps into his car, powers backward, almost taking out a PATRON and a MINIVAN, and screeches off with the trunk lid bobbing.
INT. GRUNGY MAN’S CAR—SAME
GRUNGY MAN dials his cell phone and crooks it between his head and shoulder while he searches for a cigarette, sticks it in his mouth and lights it—all while guiding the steering wheel with his knees. This is JERRY.
JERRY It’s Jerry. I think I fucked up.
April 27th, 2007 at 11:22 am
The CLERK, mid 20s, Not Asian, notices him and quickly heads to the backroom.
Good one.
April 27th, 2007 at 11:25 am
Three people from the front of the line stands a v-neck wearing, JOE, he quietly watches the two people in front of him argue over their place in line, he looks at his ticket stub: 1 shirt, Loverboy’s “Working for the Weekend” begins blaring from his pocket, it’s his phone and it’s his work calling, he places the singing phone back in his pocket.
April 27th, 2007 at 12:53 pm
Gerry Reynolds, 32, sporting a crew cut and a week’s beard growth, exhales deeply as as he walks into the dry cleaner. He hands his slip to the clerk and looked around nervously. He flinches at the sound of the clerk running the hangar machine. He stares off into space, unaware when his clothes are offered to him. CLERK (waves his hand) Yo, mister. REYNOLDS Oh, yeah. Thanks. Reynolds takes the plastic-wrapped uniform from the man with obvious resignation and walks out.
April 27th, 2007 at 1:15 pm
INT. SPEEDY DRY CLEANING – NIGHT
Behind the counter, an OLDER MAN watches a tiny television.
The TINKLING of bells brings his attention to the door.
NICK CARLYLE steps in. Everything about him says “average”. He’s of average height, average weight, and he’s attractive, but not what you’d call handsome. You wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a police line-up.
Except for two things – his right arm spasms every couple seconds and he’s got this annoying neck twitch.
NICK I am here. For my garments.
He places a CLAIM TAG on the counter.
The Older Man takes it and turns his attention to the hangers behind him.
Just then, the iris of Nick’s right eye flies to the right. He tries to wrench it back into place with his left hand as the Older Man continues to search through the hangers.
Just as Nick gets the iris back to center, the Older Man turns back, suit jacket in hand.
Nick plays it cool. Except for the right arm spasms and neck twitches.
NICK What amount. Of currency. Do you require?
Older Man Five bucks.
Nick places a five-dollar bill on the counter and puts the jacket on.
From behind, we see a five-inch hole in Nicks right shoulder. Blackened wires peak out and tiny lights blink from inside. The jacket covers up the crater.
NICK Good Evening. Sir.
April 27th, 2007 at 1:22 pm
INTIOR DRY CLEANERS – EARLY EVENING Dillon handed the dry cleaning ticket over with a wry smile.
DRY CLEANING CLERK: Just the one ticket this time?
DILLON: Yeah.
The carousel comes around and stops. The girl grabs a hanger with what looks like a black funeral suit on it and hands it to Dillon.
DRY CLEANING CLERK: Here you go sir, same time next week?
DILLON: Thanks, Nope, not next week. Not the week after that either.
DRY CLEANING CLERK: (Gives puzzled look).
DILLON: Give me 5 years and I’ll think about it.
DRY CLEANING CLERK: (Opens mouth as if to say something but then shuts it)
Dillon takes off the ring on his left ring finger and sets it on the counter, turns, and ambles out of the store as the girl watches. Traveling head on to meet his future at the blazing speed of one foot in front of the other.
April 27th, 2007 at 2:01 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
SIMON HARRIS, 22 years old, is standing second in line at the dry-cleaners. Just as his moving along to get his clothes, two 10-year old kids, MIKE and STEPHEN, step in front of him.
MIKE Stay back, lame-ass.
The man at the counter hesitantly takes a ticket from Stephen and looks at Simon, wondering isn’t he going to do anything.
SIMON I’m sorry, but I was first in -
MIKE Fuck you, nerd.
The man at the counter laughs out aloud but realizes it’s not appropriate and quickly leaves to get Stephens clothes.
SIMON But… you can’t just -
MIKE Fuck you, I said! Now get out of here.
Simon can’t get a word out of his mouth, he just keeps glancing at the two people behind him, as if asking for their help and support. Then suddenly Mike pushes him with two hands and he trips to the floor, bumping his head.
MIKE Go on, before I beat you up! Get out!
Stephen gets his clothes and turns around. Simon is holding his head and looks at the boys with fear. Now Stephen runs towards him and kicks him in the stomach. He tries to shelter from the kick with his hands but fails.
STEPHEN Now, you fuck! Go!
Simon quickly gets up with a grin of pain on his face. He sees his dry-cleaning ticket on the floor and reaches for it, but Mike graps it and then pushes Simon against the door and he almost falls again. The two other people in the line burst in laughter.
MIKE Go!
SIMON Sorry.
Simon leaves the dry-cleaners running.
April 27th, 2007 at 2:13 pm
INT. A-1 DRY CLEANERS – DAY
JARED, a mild mannered, neat man in his late 30s enters the A1 Dry Cleaners and stands in line behind a large, rumpled, sweaty man. JARED is wearing a white t-shirt and plaid boxers that appear to be starched. Patiently he waits his turn. Behind the counter the clerk, a 50ish older Asian man with black hair and grey at the temples motions for him come to the front as the large rumpled man moves out of the way.
CLERK: You look familiar, you on TV
JARED: yes and no
CLERK: yea, I’ve seen you on that TV show (pause)
JARED: The Apprentice
CLERK: No, that’s not it.
JARED: Well, I am on the Apprentice; you might have seen me on that show,
CLERK: Sure, possibly (pause) you get voted off by Mr. Trump.
JARED: No, nothing like that. You mostly see my arm or hands
CLERK: what, only parts of you
JARED: Yes, parts. I’m one of the elevator operations at the Trump Tower.
CLERK: So a (pause) is that hard?
JARED: Harder than you think. (pause) So, is my suit ready?
April 27th, 2007 at 2:17 pm
Hi, John and the other George. There are in fact two people called George posting and some how we managed to post our comments one after the other. My submission is about a character named Sebastian, sorry for any confusion.
April 27th, 2007 at 4:53 pm
INT. DRY CLEANER- DAY
It is a normal day at the dry cleaner, calm except for the whirring of automatic racks. A CLERK sits bored behind the desk, indulging in sodoku.
WENDELL, 44, a stubby fat man with a paunchy moustache protruding rudely from the crest of his upper lip. He wears a short sleeved white dress shirt, annointed with a large foul mustard stain. His left hand clutches a sausage slathered in mustard. He shoves the entire sausage in his mouth, removes his shirt, and tosses the shirt to the Clerk.
WENDELL: Can you clean that?
The Clerk looks down to find his Sodoku stained with mustard.
CLERK: Come back tomorrow.
Wendell, shirtless, exits.
April 27th, 2007 at 5:26 pm
INT. – DRY CLEANERS – DAY
Neil steps into the store, obviously nervous. He is in his late twenties, wearing baggy khakis and sneakers, his shirt seems a little bit too fancy for the rest of the outfit, it looks like it has been part of a best man’s outfit for a wedding ten years ago.
Behind the counter appears Karen, a beautiful Chinese woman, she’s about twenty years old.
KAREN Hello.
NEIL Hi!
Neil smiles at Karen one split of a second too long, then realizes, it’s his turn to act.
NEIL One Moment, I’ve got my receipt … in here … somewhere.
Neil starts to search the numerous bags of his khakis.
KAREN You can take your time.
NEIL This is … I had it five minutes ago. But that doesn’t help you very much.
KAREN No.
NEIL No. Of course not. Damn … Ah, I …
He seems to have found the receipt, at the same time, we hear a loud RUMBLING SOUND from the door. It’s a woman with a baby buggy, pushing it against the outside of the glass door. Neil opens it for her.
WOMAN Finally. Thanks.
The woman pushes the buggy past Neil and throws her receipt on the counter.
WOMAN Please hurry, I’m way behind schedule.
Karen looks apologizing at Neil and walks into the back of the store. Neil looks severely disappointed. Mrs. Cheng, an elderly chinese woman appears behind the counter.
MRS. CHENG Ah, Mr. Ruben, good to see you again. How is your mother?
NEIL Um, okay. She’s fine.
In the background Karen reappears with a bag of cleaned clothes for the woman with the baby. The woman pays, the baby starts to cry, the woman leaves quickly, by slamming the door open with the buggy.
MRS. CHENG Is her hip better? It is very nice of you to move back home when she got sick.
NEIL Well, the doctor says, she might walk again in a few months.
MRS. CHENG Good, good! (sighs) You’re such a good boy. You should go out with my niece, she always has these nasty men with their loud motorbikes.
Mrs. Cheng takes the receipt out of Neil’s hand and walks into the back of the store. There’s a painful moment of silence between Neil and Karen.
NEIL I’m sorry.
KAREN Why?
NEIL Because of what your aunt said.
KAREN She’s not my aunt. I just work here. Do I look like I would date bikers?
NEIL (relieved) Oh, no! No! My mistake. (Pause) So, would you …
KAREN (interrupts him) I think I have to go help Mrs. Cheng back there. (smiles) Bye, good boy.
Karen leaves for the back of the store. Neil is deeply embarrassed, almost about to leave. Then Mrs. Cheng returns with a bag of laundry.
MRS. CHENG I found your clothes. Say Hello to your mom for me, please!
NEIL (a little bitter) I will, Mrs. Cheng. Thank you.
Neil puts a ten-dollar bill on the counter and leaves the store with the bag of his mother’s cothes.
April 27th, 2007 at 6:00 pm
INT. HAPPY LAUND-O-RAMA – DAY
FRANK DAWSON (35) enters the busiest dry cleaners west of Sunset Boulevard and takes his place in line. Each time he’s about to reach the front, he turns around and allows another person to cut in front of him.
FRANK Oh that looks heavy. Go on ahead of me.
And another.
FRANK Yikes, that’s a lot of laundry. You go first.
And another.
FRANK You’ve got a lot more than I do, I insist you cut.
The korean woman at the front eyes him curiously, as this continues for well over an hour. Eventually, there is no one left.
KOREAN WOMAN Sir?
FRANK Oh, sorry. I just didn’t want to be alone today.
Frank leaves behind a gentle smile as he exits.
April 27th, 2007 at 6:01 pm
BILL TODD, 45, rushes into the cleaners, head down in a way that seems at odds with the boldness of his well-cut three-piece suit. He holds a ticket out stiffly like a French waiter presenting a bill. To his visible dismay, BOB CHEN, the man behind the counter, recognizes him.
CHEN (checking ticket): Good morning, sir.
TODD grumbles good morning as Chen receives a clutch of clothes on hangers.
CHEN: We haven’t seen Mrs. in a while, sir.
TODD: She’s fine…She was sick, but she’s better now, thanks.
CHEN (checking over a pink dress): All the mud gone, but some, ah…blood? Some is still there.
Awkward pause.
CHEN (CON’D): Everything OK, yes?
TODD (grabbng clothes and rushing out door): Just fine thanks.
April 27th, 2007 at 6:12 pm
EXT. DRY CLEANERS – NIGHT
A glass door. A sign hanging from it shows: “OPEN.” But not for long–
–A hand flips the sign over to CLOSED. The DRY CLEANING WORKER turns away from the door.
INT. DRY CLEANERS – CONTINUOUS
The DRY CLEANING WORKER walks behind the desk. He is standing in front of the endless racks of clothes under plastic until–
–Rapid KNOCKING at the door.
Meet CHARLES REDMAN, a middle-aged Italian man who’s usually a good-looking, calm businesss man. But not tonight. Tonight his eyes as red as the blood stained all over his torn, button down shirt. Let’s just say – it’s been a long night.
He is BANGING at the door. The DRY CLEANING WORKER looks up from the counter.
Charles isn’t banging on the door with his hand. He’s RAPPING on the door with a gleaming, chrome Magnum.
CHARLES I could really use a change of clothes. You’re not really closed, (shaking his pistol in front of the glass door) Are you?
Charles smiles.
April 27th, 2007 at 6:18 pm
EXT. PARKING LOT – NIGHT
THE RICKER peels into RIVER DOLPHIN LAUNDRY. He gets out of his candy apple red Audi station wagon, slams the door shut, and races to the cleaners.
Praying that the store is not closed, he flings the door open just a bit too hard.
INT. RIVER DOLPHIN LAUNDRY – NIGHT
He plays it cool, brushing a few long strands of hair over his bald spot. He approaches LANA who sits behind the counter.
THE RICKER (not self-conscious) Comb over.
She holds back a judgemental giggle.
THE RICKER Man, I’m glad I made it in time. I thought you’d be closed.
LANA Nope. Open 24-7. Like always.
THE RICKER Yeah. Right. Hey–I’m here for my dry cleaning.
LANA You mean laundry.
THE RICKER Right, laundry. Wanna go out?
She hands him three over-stuffed bags.
THE RICKER I’ve got two-for-ones at Moe’s. Or maybe it was half-off.
The yellowist tighty-”whities” she’s ever seen off hang off her index finger.
LANA Uh, no.
He swipes them and takes a sniff. The elastic is shot, strategic holes, and a brown stain that’s not coming out.
THE RICKER Clean. Just like I like ‘em.
He shoves them in a bag.
THE RICKER How much’ll it be?
LANA $73.46
THE RICKER Put it on my tab.
He can’t quite manage the three big bags of clothes as he heads to the door. He turns. LANA shakes her head, smiling.
April 27th, 2007 at 6:23 pm
Sweet baby jesus not every dry cleaners is owned by an Asian person! (Thanks Mark!)
April 27th, 2007 at 6:36 pm
A buzzer CHIMES as the INVISIBLE FREAKAZOID enters a strip mall DRY CLEANER. He looks…
eh…
well…
shit.
April 27th, 2007 at 7:17 pm
EXT. FASHIONABLE PARIDISE DRY CLEANERS – DAY
A cold blustery day. A weathered sign, “Fashionble Paradise Dry Cleaners”, hangs over a run down ’70s era shop in a a bad part of town. Bars line the front window. Beater cars are parked to the left and right of the shop.
A pristine black Mercury Grand Marquis with smoked windows pulls up and quicky and smoothly parks between the beater cars. It looks way out of place in this neighbourhood.
The doors stay shut a moment as someone unseen inside the car checks the mirrors. Then the door finally swings open and a male leg clad in black pants and expensive shoes swings into view below the door.
INT. FASHIONABLE PARIDISE DRY CLEANERS – DUSK
The MARQUIS DRIVER puts a half-full large black plastic garbage bag down on the counter. He’s a heavyset man with watchful eyes in expensively casual clothing. Given his clothes and his gold watch, he has more than enough money to dress well. Oddly though, he’s not wearing a coat, despite the chill in the air.
The owner of the drycleaners, an older Chinese man, comes out from the back.
OWNER Ah, Mr. Smith, so good to see you again.
MR. SMITH, the Marquee driver doesn’t return the greeting. Instead, he seems to telepathically sense the punk checking out his Marquis behind him. He turns around to look at the punk outside the store window. The punk looks a bit surprised to see the legendary Mr. Smith, looks worried, then quickly leaves.
The owner pulls Smith’s clothes out of the bag to sort them into his drycleaning bins. In one bin goes Smith’s laundry – socks, underwear, shirts and the like. All fairly unremarkable until he gets to a shirt soaked with blood.
OWNER Don’t worry, this will come out just fine.
The owner pulls out a few more articles before coming to the last article of clothing, a designer dry clean only jacket splattered with blood.
OWNER Oh, this is a travesty. To do this to a Armani is just a crime.
The owner carefully puts the Armani jacket in his dry clean bin.
OWNER I’ll try my best, but I can’t make any guarantees.
He looks up at Mr. Smith and smiles apologetically. Mr. Smith just looks at him impassively.
MR. SMITH My coat?
OWNER Oh yes, your coat.
The owner goes to his sewing area to the right side of the counter and picks up an expensive leather trenchcoat.
OWNER (returning to Mr. Smith) I tried my best, but there’s still a little mark.
Mr. Smith takes the coat. He the small mark where the owner has patched a bullet hole over where his heart would be.
MR. SMITH It’s fine.
Mr. Smith puts on the coat. He winces a little as he puts his arm though the left sleeve – he’s still sore – bullet proof vests can only do so much.
April 27th, 2007 at 7:59 pm
INT. DYR CLEANER’S – NIGHT A man in a dinner jacket is the only customer at the counter. MRS. KIM, the proprietor, is rummaging through the contents of a shelf. There hasn’t been a Mr. Kim for sixteen years. MRS. KIM How’s the scar healing Mr. Burns? The man pulls his left shirt cuff forward. BURNS I’ll live. He smiles and we get a proper look at JEFFREY BURNS for the very first time. Handsome like an up-and-coming politician with the physical carriage of a pro athlete. Through the window we can see Burns’s car and the beautiful woman in the passenger seat. She looks worried. Mrs. Kim finds what she was looking for and slides the package over to Burns. He peeks inside. We see a mean-looking pistol. He smiles. BURNS Every time Mrs. Kim. MRS. KIM What can I say Mr. Burns, we’re not FedEx but we deliver.
April 27th, 2007 at 8:24 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS – EVENING
The door of the dry cleaners bursts open. DAVID YOUNG, nearly 30, almost crash lands inside the shop. Dressed in jogging gear, like it was invented for him; short shorts and a t-shirt with “Columbia� emblazoned across it. He steadies himself, having come to a sudden and awkward stop.
The OWNER looks up from the cash register, startled.
OWNER The fuck?
David pulls iPod earphones from his ears. His eyes are wide and his breathing is labored…
DAVID You open?
OWNER We are now!
David looks around at the door. It’s wide-open. The self-closing hinge is busted.
DAVID I’ll pay for that.
OWNER You can if you want. It’s been like that for six months. You wanna pick something up?
David takes a deep breath, plunges his hand into his short shorts back pocket and pulls out a dry cleaners ticket – almost triumphant.
DAVID Tux, two shirts.
David hands over the ticket.
DAVID (cont’d) They had blood on them. Did you manage to get that out?
OWNER Yes. We’re miracle workers.
As the owner disappears behind a rack of plastic-wrapped clothes, David begins to do leg stretches against the counter. Warming down after a long run.
DAVID Good. Even I couldn’t get married with blood stains on my tux.
April 27th, 2007 at 9:38 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
Sunlight cascades across the wall as the door opens. In steps a brute of a man. Years of Happy Hours form the man’s physique. Hours of working in the sun exemplify the worried wrinkles in his face. Squinting through his deep sockets, he looks at the CASHIER before proceeding.
The Cashier stares back, then forces a smile.
CASHIER How can I help you?
MAN Albert Sullivan. Pickin’ up my kilt.
The Cashier gives ALBERT SULLIVAN a second once-over. He sports a black kilt with a navy blue blazer, which can mean death in this part of town. The knee-high socks, embroidered with pumpkins, don’t help.
CASHIER Sullivan? Just a sec.
The Cashier disappears into the back of the store. Albert glances around the mostly empty space. Sunlight shines off a small hoop earring in his left earlobe.
The Cashier returns, clean kilt in hand.
CASHIER (CONT’D) Here you go. Anything else for you today?
ALBERT Yeah, I gotta drop another off.
Albert forces his thumbs into the waistline of his kilt and pulls down. A sharp ray of sunshine cuts through the glass wall of the store and instantly reflects off another metal ornament, much larger than Albert’s hoop earring, and much lower.
The Clerk’s eyes slowly widen. Even the direct glare of light piercing his pupils can’t make him shut them. And he wants to, very badly.
April 27th, 2007 at 9:49 pm
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
HARLAN WEATHERBY (35) waits in a long line as several police cars, SIRENS BLARING, speed by. He’s wry and foppish and doesn’t look like he’s ever had to pick up his own dry cleaning before.
An ELDERLY WOMAN takes an armful of clothes from the clerk, GARY WONG (25), and shuffles to the door.
Harlan hands over his ticket. Jimmy looks at it, then up at Harlan, giving him a satisfied little smile before looking past Harlan. Harlan turns…a police car has stopped outside.
HARLAN Uh, I’m a day early, thought I might be lucky. But if it’s not ready yet, well…
The police car pulls away.
JIMMY No, this order’s ready. Hope you don’t mind me saying that you have some classic European cuts there.
HARLAN Thank you, I appreciate that.
Jimmy hands over several suits and tuxedos – but they seem a little more solid than they should. Harlan scoops them up as naturally as he can, then holds a wab of hundred dollar bills in his palm and discreetly passes them over.
HARLAN What do you think of my contemporary American styles?
JIMMY Think you forgot to bring those in.
HARLAN Next time. They really need a good cleaning.
Harlan exits, trying to carry the cloths as smoothly as possible past the other customers.
April 27th, 2007 at 9:58 pm
Laundry interior, early morning. We’re looking towards the front of the shop: on one side, a bank of SpeedQueen washers, on the other, a wall of dryers, and between them a long bench for customers to sit on while the machines churn, with a body-width aisle either side. Through full-width front window, signwritten and fogged, we glimpse a busy street – not a bustling city sidewalk, but more a suburban centre, a plaza near a train station.
The door opens and JEREMY walks in. He’s a twentieth century man: his fine suit is a generous 40s cut; his hair is parted and set with cream, the toecaps of his burgundy oxfords gleam, as does the brass clasp on his briefcase and the flat lenses of his wire rimmed glasses. His posture and stride say he’s healthy, and his skin proves it. He might cleanse, tone and moisturize daily, but no-one needs to know; that slightly cleft chin meets a fresh Gillette every morning. He’s carefully masculine, neat, strong.
He walks the aisle to the counter at the back of the shop, sets his briefcase on the counter, and nods hello to the PROPRIETOR, who’s doing something with a needle and thread. JEREMY takes a slim wallet from inside his jacket, opens it and takes out a ticket, which he hands over.
PROPRIETOR: Mister.. Briggs..?
JEREMY: That’s right.
PROPRIETOR: Just a moment, sir.
He steps back from the counter and fetches a bagged overcoat from a hanging rack. He lays it on the counter, pulls up the plastic bag and displays the tail of the coat; the silky wool drapes like liquid across his hand.
PROPRIETOR: We took care of that completely, sir. It came right out.
JEREMY (smiles): I’m grateful.
PROPRIETOR: Such a beautiful coat.
JEREMY: It is. (Pause) It was my father’s.
PROPRIETOR: Well, there you have it, see. Quality like this, not to be found nowadays. Fine gentlemen’s garments… they will last for ever! Well, maybe not forever, but you know–
JEREMY smiles again, takes a definite but subtle glance at the very fine, slim, old watch on his wrist. The PROPRIETOR takes the hint and readies the coat for him.
PROPRIETOR: Well, you’ll be in a hurry this morning, sir. Twenty-seven fifty, please.
JEREMY: No. I paid when I dropped it in.
The PROPRIETOR takes another look at the ticket.
PROPRIETOR (a little self-righteous): Well, sir, if that were the case, this ticket would be marked to indicate.. it would have a a big P, right there, with a circle around it. No P means not paid….
JEREMY: I can see the logic in that. But I did pay in advance. The girl who was here on Friday evening – she took my coat, and my cash, and wrote this ticket out. While she was talking on her cell phone. I believe she was making plans for later that evening with someone named… Leon.
PROPRIETOR (now a little uncomfortable): That’s my daughter, sir. And she can be a little.. well… she’s distractable… But she was brought up with three strict rules, and one of them is: P means Paid. So I expect that if you had paid, there would be a P on this ticket, and since there is no P, well I just have to conclude that, well, perhaps you are just a little mistaken in your recollection.
JEREMY (his hands open, with a smile): Do I look like the kind of man who makes mistakes in his business transactions?
PROPRIETOR: No sir, not really…
JEREMY: And your daughter, you say, is easily distracted.
PROPRIETOR (increasingly uncomfortable): I suppose–
JEREMY: You know, I’ve just moved into this neighbourhood, and when I come somewhere new, I always like to deal with established businesses. Family businesses, with high standards and a good reputation.
(The PROPRIETOR looks a little relieved)
JEREMY (continues) And since you have taken good care of my overcoat, I think what would be best is, I will pay the disputed amount this time. I wouldn’t want you to think that I would try to take advantage of your professional services without paying for what I’ve received.
PROPRIETOR: Oh no, sir – not at all. I–
JEREMY (hands him notes from his wallet, and continues): And perhaps, in the future, I might expect–
PROPRIETOR (relieved): Nothing but the best and fastest service, sir. Straight to the front of the rack!
JEREMY (smiling again): And I’ll remember to check for that P…
PROPRIETOR: P means paid! (He hands over the coat and the change)
JEREMY folds his coat over one arm, pockets his change, picks up his briefcase and turns to go.
JEREMY: Goodbye. (He doesn’t look back.)
PROPRIETOR: Have yourself a mighty fine day, sir!
April 27th, 2007 at 11:29 pm
INT. DRY CLEAN–DAY
The inside of a glass door reverses MR. WHITE’S DRY CLEAN. Police sirens. Screams. Gunfire. Business as usual in the big city.
The door swings open. Sleigh bells ANNOUNCE the next hurried customer sweeping in
A GUNMAN MASKED WITH VINYL TIGHTS, blindly waving a gun.
The thief is dressed to the nines. Black tie, white tuxedo but soaked with splashes of red stains, dripping down to white basketball sneakers. Smoke hisses off his suit. If it’s an italian wedding he just held up, maybe it’s marinara sauce. The crook’s head is strangled by pink, glittered pantyhose with dancing blue hippos. Snug on 1 to 3 month tushies perhaps, but fiercely chowing down on 6 feet, 200lbs of grade A hoodlum. Face first.
He labors to suck barely enough oxygen for a mouse. Stumbles toward the counter, drags a glutted canvas bag that paints a red trail down the middle of a sparkling, white vinyl floor.
The nozzle of a pistol RINGS a brass service bell.
The gunman YANKS at the suffocating pantyhose, stretches it out as far as his arms can pull without dislocation. But still, the little leotard won’t let go. It’s like fused to his skin. The nylon PEELS back his face in a horrific Munch Scream. He whimpers, a disfigured pig-child being born. The shimmering tiny tights relent, finally snapping off. They sling shot back across the room, and RING the dangling sleigh bells over the entrance.
DING-DING-DING! DING-A-LING!
STROMILE TROTTER barely 20, handsome, self-made millionaire from the better hood. DESIGNER RUNNERS self-autographed with a Sharpie, reveal his many aliases.
“CORSAIR JORDAN” “MAN OF STEAL” “DUNKIN’ DONUT DUNKER” “AKA- CRACK HEAD ROB FROM DA HOOD”
Detroit is his own all-he-can-slurp oyster bar– thanks partly to a magnetic personality, but mostly supported by a one-time booming investment, his .357 Magnum. A big mane of hair fluctuates with major Einstein static head, but this criminal mind’s only relativity to genius is a pre-game-double-knot shoestring theory– and even that Mamma says is “one missed lace hole away from a purse snatch plan that POOF! Goes foolproof to fool proof”.
The canvas bag is hauled onto the counter. FUMES RISE OUT then– stacks of RED-SPLOTCHED BILLS spill onto the counter.
A HAND slides down the front of his bulging tuxedo pants.
The hand retrieves 1-2-3 more stacks of red-dyed C-notes that rain on the counter. Tuxedo blazer, shirt, pants, and air Jordans topple the pile.
Behind the service counter, curtains part- TREY BIGG. He’s big, black, and his bulging pecks are straining his white
MR. WHITE’S DRY CLEAN t-shirt.
He scans the room. The hippo tights swing his tiny tin bells. The crimson streak splits his clean floor. The mountain of cash and clothes drip a pool of red dye on his counter.
Trey Bigg flexes beefy biceps, a tattoo ripples-
“CLEAN MACHINE”
He likes to get medieval on tough stains and beat em out… old school. Right now though, he’s snarling at another motto that hangs over his head.
“CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT”
Stromile stands dumb with electrified head, stripped down to sox and tighty-whities. His revolver is stuffed halfway down his fruit-of-the-loom’s, and point straight to a red blotched crotch. A wad of red moolah, a POCKET SIZED PHOTO, and a LAUNDRY TICKET stick out of rubber waistband. Stromile draws the laundry ticket out of his shorts, casually hands it to-a big, black, bleach bomb, foaming at the mouth. And ready to explode.
TREY BIGG They call me… MISTER BIG!
STROMILE Terrible.
TREY BIGG No sir. Totally Denzel.
STROMILE Mr. Poitier is turning in his grave.
TREY BIGG Sid ain’t dead. But he should be. Cause…
TOGETHER That was a killer performance!
Trey reaches under the counter. Dumps 60lbs of neatly stacked, crisp, green American money on the counter.
TREY BIGG Where you been Stromile Trotter? Pickup’s been clean jean for a month.
STROMILE Paternity test results came in.
TREY BIGG Congratulations bro!
Stromile flashes a FAMILY PICTURE- FRAZZLED Stromile and a PRETTY BLOND cradle a NEWBORN BABY in a pink dress. Trey matches the pink hippo tights on the baby with the ones hanging over the front door.
TREY BIGG Oh, shit. that’s awful.
STROMILE That’s actually one of the better ones. Mr. Photo-Sock finally got me to stop crying.
TREY BIGG No. I mean- shit. That’s DADDY, awful.
STROMILE Oh. No, I’m good.
TREY BIGG C’mon man.
STROMILE No. Really.
TREY BIGG Don’t try to douche a situation that stinks.
STROMILE I’m fine It’s like Mr. Photo-Sock says. Every picture has a negative AND a positive. He’s like the Patch Adams of photography.
(singing/sockhopping) No mourning in the morning, just laughter from hereafter, and just yuckkity-yuck-yuck… if you forgot– the Morning After!
Stromile strains a smile. We move close to his
Unblinking eye. That struggles to hide the abortion of its living soul.
It slowly and sadly moistens. A solitary tear finally overflows out the corner, slaloms down his cheek until a TONGUE catches it near lip.
STROMILE Yumm. Happy tears taste like syrup.
Trey spreads his python arms wide.
Stromile tries to hold back the dam. But all traces of manhood disappear and he melts into the big man’s chest. Trey’s monstrous hands thoughtfully use 100 dollar bills to wipe away Stromile’s river of tears.
TREY BIGG Oh-so-sorry, daddy-o.
April 28th, 2007 at 2:12 am
INT. B-HIVE CLEANERS, 9:00 A.M. FRIDAY, NEPHI, UTAH
MAX ZYON— Except for the fact that he is an unmarried, excommunicated Mormon, MAX ZYON, a man in his early 30s, is a typical native from Utah with average height, crew cut blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin and pearly white teeth.
MAX enters B-Hive Dry Cleaners to pick up church attire for his brother’s missionary Homecoming this Sunday. Having missed his brother’s Farewell two years ago and due to his religious indiscretion, MAX’s mother pressured him to dress nicely for the event. At all times MAX carries a messenger bag strapped across his chest that holds his beloved 19th century Swiss brass ear trumpet, inherited from his deceased grandfather, from whom he also inherited his clumsy, Clouseausian hearing. Yet in MAX’s arrogance, he always assumes he hears most things correctly without the trumpet.
MAX: Hello there, I’m here to pick up a suit for Zyon.
ATTENDANT: (an awkward pimply teenage boy with a shaky voice) Is that spelled Z-i-o-n?
MAX: (pointing to the window) Not open? Look buddy, your sign says open, why are you pulling my leg?
ATTENDANT: What? I said, do you spell it Z-i-o-n
MAX: (Speaking loudly as if the ATTENDANT were hard of hearing), No! Not Owen! Not a pick up for Owen, it’s Zyon– Zee-yyyy-oooo-nnnnnn (arms outstretching with each syllable).
ATTENDANT: (muttering to himself, ATTENDANT looks through a rack of clothes and with his back turned to MAX) Your order isn’t ready yet.
MAX: Huh?
ATTENDANT: (a little louder) It’s not ready yet.
MAX: What do you mean you got rid of it?!!
ATTENDANT: It’s not ready yet.
MAX: Catch your drift?
ATTENDANT: What?
MAX: (Rolling his eyes and reaching into his bag, Max grabs his ear trumpet, inserts it in his right ear and leans across the counter). Come again?
ATTENDANT: (confused and uncomfortable at having to lean in so close to MAX’s ear trumpet, he does so and yells) IT’LL BE READY THIS AFTERNOON
MAX: (jumping back at the loud noise) Christ man! You don’t have to yell!!
April 28th, 2007 at 3:45 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY
Fluorescent lighting flickers across the powerful, well-worn face of COONS MACDOUGAL, 58.
April 28th, 2007 at 3:53 am
A yellowcab drives slowly through downtown Reykjavik. The TAXIDRIVER´S head is sticking out of the window. As he steers the car he gasps for air.
In the backseat sits Eric Hannesson. Eric looks like he has been marooned on some terrible island for the past few years. Wild beard, clothes in rags…..a Robinson Crusoe without the tan and having a bad hairday. His pants have been pissed in, his shirt is covered with spots of drying vomit and blood. Eric stares intently at his own hand, clenched between his bony fingers is a wrinkled, torn and yellowing ticket……In gilded lettering the ticket reads: Olympia Dry Cleaners nr. 187
April 28th, 2007 at 4:49 am
Impatiently, KENNY is waiting in the corner. His stylish hair is an ill fit with the faded T-shirt and green 80’s shorts. It’s been days since he gave up hiding the scratch-marks on his left arm, and is now furiously scuffing away at the itch. Finally the clerk nods at him. Kenny marches up and quickly puts the wrinkled ball of a ticket on the counter.
April 28th, 2007 at 5:46 am
INT. – DRY CLEANERS – NOON
A dry cleaner store in downtown L.A., the doorbell rings. Enter RUFUS, a scruffy guy in his mid-thirties, slightly out of breath. Rufus wears a shabby trench coat that might have looked Bogart-Style before it has been worn for twenty years and washed maybe twice. His hair is greasy, his glasses were expensive and hip one day, now one glass has a chip in it, and the other one could use some cleaning. To complete the weird outfit, Rufus wears big clown shoes.
Behind the counter stands a tough polish lady, attending a customer, about twenty years old, in a business suit.
Rufus coughs, not because his throat is soar, but because he wants attention. Which hew doesn’t get. So he coughs again, louder. Still no reaction from the lady behind the counter and her customer.
So Rufus opens his coat and puts his right hand out high, in it a brown paper bag, obviously filled up with something. We can now see, what he’s wearing under his coat:
A belt of explosives. Rufus screams.
RUFUS Insha’allah!
The lady behind the counter screams, the guy in the business suit jumps to the side, stumbles, crashes into a display of “Explore L.A.!”-flyers.
Rufus slams his left hand against the brown bag in his right. A loud BOOM! erupts, followed by a silent rain of confetti.
Rufus now turns to the business guy. In his hand he holds now a big pile of papers, loosely held together by a rubber band.
RUFUS Hello Mr. Weinstein, now that I have your attention, may I present you my screenplay, “Suicide Plumber”. It’s an action comedy in the style of “The Great Gatsby” but with a twist.
The business guy stares at Rufus in disbelief.
RUFUS I’ve been working on it for years. Please.
BUSINESS GUY (screaming) I am not Harvey Weinstein, you moron! Do you think Harvey Weinstein picks up his own fucking laundry or what??? I’m his assistant!
RUFUS Oh.
BLAM! With a huge noise, Rufus left leg is torn away, he falls over, watching his clown-shoed limb now blocking the front door. Behind the counter the polish lady is now holding a shotgun.
OLGA (shouting in polish accent) I told you to never come back in my store!
Rufus blacks out.
April 28th, 2007 at 6:52 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY Bagged clothes jangle as the conveyor rack lurches forward and then stops. The child arms of CODY strain to hang the next garment on the rack. He glances at the OWNER sitting on a stool at the front counter making faces at her People magazine. He resumes reaching. The door chimes. Cody looks up and gapes. He looks to see if the owner has noticed. She gives him a look and he rushes off to retrieve the order. MARTHA ATLEY, fourty-ish, stands in the lobby wearing a power suit. She is at the same time intense and distant. The owner shifts under her gaze and glances toward the back. Cody appears, struggling with a long box which he hoists on the counter. He stares at Martha. The owner rises from her stool, shuffles over and opens the box. It contains a wedding dress. OWNER I was able to get it pretty good. But there was just so much of his blood… I couldn’t get it all out. She motions to a sequined area on the breast of the dress. MARTHA That’s fine. OWNER Real sorry, Miss Williams. MARTHA Atley. (beat) I’m still taking his name. OWNER Oh! I- Cody is whimpering. OWNER Cody! CODY We believed in him. He was gonna change things. MARTHA What is your name? CODY Cody. MARTHA Cody, he still is going to change things. If you believed in him, now you can believe in me. Maybe one day you can help me. Cody nods. The owner moves to the till. OWNER Two hundred fourty nine seventy-three.
April 28th, 2007 at 6:55 am
EXT.- CITY STREET- DAY
PETER walks directly toward us. He is wearing a waiter’s uniform: white shirt, black pants, black shoes, and has his clenched fists jammed into his pockets. He is in his early forties, clean-shaven with short black hair. Once a welterweight, he is now a light-heavy, and years on his feet have taken the spring from his step. He turns to enter a store and we hear a bell announcing his arrival.
INT. DRY CLEANER
A fiftyish white man, obviously the OWNER, enters from the rear of the store.
OWNER: Can I help you?
PETER unclenches a fist and hands OWNER a rumpled receipt.
OWNER: We haven’t used these tickets in years. When’d you bring the item in?
PETER: July 26, 2004, (beat) the day after my father’s funeral.
OWNER: I’ll have to hunt around in the back for it – we usually don’t keep things that long. (He looks again at the ticket, then at PETER.) Another funeral?
PETER: You never know.
PETER smiles (but just barely) and points at OWNER.
PETER: But if you come back with my suit you’ve got nothing to worry about.
April 28th, 2007 at 6:58 am
INT – back room of Dry Cleaners: {daytime}
An employee takes 6 shirts off a rack and piles them together, they are all black. Reluctantly he begins unbuttoning the shirt he is wearing; his fingers linger covetously over the rich fabric. He shakes out the wrinkles, slides it onto a hangar, and gathers it up with the other 6. And takes them all to the front counter, whereSTORE OWNER and BRAM are standing.
BRAM looks at the shirts critically but doesn’t say anything, he picks up the stack of shirts and tosses down a few bills to cover the price of the cleaning. As STORE OWNER reaches for the money BRAM’s hand grasps his wrist interrupting him.
BRAM – “Tell your people to stop wearing my things.”
STORE OWNER’s gaze (and our own) turn to the blue shirt; inky blackness spreads from the point where BRAM’s hand is touching it.
April 28th, 2007 at 6:58 am
How PITBULL (35) managed to become a renowned pick-up artist with a face like his is anyone’s guess. Fact remains, if you could polish a turd, he’d be the best looking guy in town – even the DOG COLLAR sports an Italian name. In two years time, Pitbull has made a fortune teaching men how to get men, claiming it doesn’t even matter whether the target is gay or straight. Try to shake his hand, and he’ll give you the rock – the pick-up artist must always be the exception to the rule.
He locks eyes with the CLERK.
PITBULL I’d show you my ticket, Alejandro, but we both know it’d be pointless.
April 28th, 2007 at 6:59 am
INT. DRY CLEANERS – DAY Inside the store a scene of mayhem. There’s blood everywhere, on the floor, the walls. An OLD CUSTOMER is on the ground, apparently dead. A VAMPIRE closes in on a FEMALE CUSTOMER. The VAMPIRE exposes his teeth and is ready to sink them into the white skin of the Female Customer, when …
TOM : Please! Hello! Hey!
The VAMPIRE turns around. Now we see Tom. He is in his mid-thirties and dressed like a clerk. He would go unnoticed in a crowd.
TOM (VOICE OVER): It all started with a trip to the dry cleaner
The VAMPIRE leaps in sudden motion towards Tom.
TOM (VOICE OVER): I though it was the end.
The picture freezes.
TOM (VOICE OVER): But it wasn’t