I thank the kind folks who purchased books today on Bay Parkway. Here's an excerpt from a screenplay I wrote in the late '90's. Who knew the World Trade Center would be destroyed just a few years later? The story is a romantic comedy influenced by Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew, Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice, and the films of Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.
.
Part One: Pre-dawn. The Manhattan skyline as seen from Brooklyn. In the
background, as the opening credits roll, Duke Ellington's "All of Me " is playing. This is
an age-old story of the battle of the sexes, of boy meets girl, a Brooklyn boy and a
Manhattan girl, circa 1997.
A couple approaches a Greenwich Village apartment building, where the female, Kate
Austen, a 35-year-old magazine writer with a no-nonsense demeanor, resides. They are
wearing jackets, as it is early May. The man, long-haired, is carrying a guitar case. Kate
nervously slips a key into the outer door and pushes it open.
A shot of the Williamsburg Bridge as seen from Manhattan. Across the river, in a loft,
sleeps Joe Petruccio, a 37-year-old gold trader who exudes a love of life (a Tony Danza-
type). Closeup of the face of a radio alarm clock. The numbers turn to 5:30. The alarm
sounds. Joe, sleeping on his right side, opens his right eye, raises his right arm, and turns
off the alarm. He is alone. He rolls out of bed.
Back to the Village. A door swings open and Kate backs in, lips glued to her
companion's. Without breaking the kiss, she peels off her leather jacket and lets it drop
to the floor behind her, then begins taking off his.
Back to Williamsburg. Joe is now in his exercise area, on a stationary bike, a walkman
clipped to his shirt. The loft is neatly kept.
Back to the Village. The apartment is a mess. Kate, in T-shirt and panties, is furiously
rummaging through drawers. In the background, the musician is lying on the bed,
smoking.
Kate:
I can't believe you don't have one. You must have groupies throwing themselves at you
all the time.
He does not respond. He seems bored, blows smoke rings. Finally Kate Finds what she
is looking for - a condom.
Kate:
Thank God!
She tears at the wrapper eagerly.
In Williamsburg, Joe is now pumping iron.
In the Village, the bare back of the musician is now grinding above Kate, who is still
wearing her T-shirt. She holds on gently, tense, eyes shut tight.
In Williamsburg, Joe is now on a treadmill, lips mouthing song.
In the Village, Kate is now on her side, head resting on one
hand, the fingers of the other drumming on the mattress. She stares at the back of the
musician, who is sawing wood. Frustrated, she rolls out of bed, mumbling to herself.
Kate:
Stupid.
In Williamsburg, Joe is in the shower, singing Sinatra.
In the Village, Kate, depressed, is also in the shower.
In Williamsburg, Joe is eating breakfast, cold cereal and fruit. He laughs at the radio
satire of Imus in the morning.
In the Village, Kate climbs back into bed, sneers at the musician, turns her back to him,
and pulls the covers over herself, exposing him.
Joe, dressed casually and neat, wearing running shoes, approaches a newsstand and
picks up a copy of the New York Post. He smiles at the vendor, who is wearing a turban
and speaks with an accent.
Joe:
What's up, Ram?
Ram:
How are you, Sir?
Joe frowns.
Joe:
Will you stop with that "Sir" stuff? How long we know each other now?
Ram smiles uncomfortably. Joe glances at the back page, grunts disgustedly.
Ram:
Did you see them last night? What the hell was that, I ask you?
Joe:
You got your Stanley Cup a few years ago. You want another one? My ol' man waited
50 years for his.
Ram:
Lord help us.
Joe:
Have a good one.
Ram:
You too, Sir.
Joe climbs the stairs of an elevated train station, boards
a crowded train, opens the newspaper, folds it in half vertically.
Later, he emerges from an underground station in Manhattan and falls in among the
crowd pouring toward the World Trade Center.
He walks onto the trading floor, which is quiet, as it is still well before the opening of
trading. A gruff voice calls out to him from a distant booth. It is Sol, a portly, jovial
fellow trader who always has candy bars protruded from the breast pocket of his trading
jacket.
Sol:
Jerky boy.
Joe chuckles, shakes his head, waves. Sol, hand high above his head, is pointing
downward toward his crotch.
Joe enters his booth, where Bob, his younger brother, is sorting order slips. A thin
metal plate affixed to the narrow area reads: "Joey Trading." There are several similar
booths in the row.
Joe:
What's the call?
Bob:
Little higher.
Joe:
I'm long 25, right?
Rob:
Yeah. You got big ones, I'll give you that, you lucky ....
Bob bites off the rest of the sentence.
Joe:
Gotta be in it to win it.
Bob:
I won last night. Did you?
Joe smirks.
Bob:
I did. Merrill's new clerk. The one they call "Tits-on-a-Stick." They're real! Ma-done!
Joe:
You took her to the house?
Bob:
Yeah.
Joe:
Mommy musta been thrilled. Spring for a motel once in a while.
Bob:
Why?
Joe:
Whattaya mean "why?" What's wrong with you?
A country club golf course. John (Rip Torn-like) and Mary Barski (Dina Merrill-type),
retired, in their early seventies, are seated in a motorized golf cart.
Mr. B:
Ready, my dear?
Mrs. B:
Ready, J.P.
Mr. B:
Today we break 80.
Mrs. Barski laughs skeptically Mr. Barski feigns outrage.
Mr. B:
Are there doubters among us?
Mrs. B:
Only realists.
A modest home in Brooklyn. Joe's parents and Grandmother are seated at the kitchen
table, having breakfastt. Mr. Petruccio is wearing his postman's uniform. The only
sounds are the clanging of utensils and the television, set on a counter. Suddenly
Grandma speaks, to no one in particular, angrily, in Italian.
Grandma:
Maleducati. (Poorly reared)
Mrs. P:
Ma.
Grandma:
Scustomatti. (ill-mannered)
Mrs. P:
Ma.
Grandma:
Animali. (Animals)
Mrs. P:
Ma!
Mr. Petruccio ignores it all, concentrating on the sports section of the Daily News.
Mrs. P:
Did you hear your son last night?
Grandma:
'naltra putana. Vergonia. (Another slut. The shame)
Mrs. P:
I don't like it. Joey never brought 'em here. He did everything else, but he never
brought his bootons home. I want you to talk to him.
He ignores her. She swats at him with a dish cloth. Grandma nods approval.
Grandma:
Hai fato bene. (You did right).
Mr. P:
Wha'?
Mrs. P:
Listen to me when I talk.
Mr. P:
I Heard you. It's the same thing every time. He's 33 years old. You should be happy he
ain't in there alone like some psycho. Don't listen, that's all.
Mrs. P:
Don't listen? My father, God rest his poor soul, could hear 'em.
Grandma stops knitting only long enough to make the sign of the cross.
Read Vic's stories, free: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature
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