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.
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