Andrezj of Hollywood: A Novel

By David Schulze

Hollywood, the American film industry, is one of the most lucrative and competitive businesses in the world. It's where dreams become real, men act like gods, and heroes turn into monsters... both on the screen and off.

JACOB IS CALIFORNIA DREAMIN'

Insulted by his family and emotionally neglected by

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Schulze Books
• Release date: Jun 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781737037842

David Schulze

David Schulze was born and raised in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania. A lifelong admirer of movies, mythology, and classic literature, David loves stories across all mediums.In 2017, David graduated from Emerson College with a BA in Writing for Film and Television and a Minor in Literature. He has written nine feature screenplays and four shorts, many of them placing in screenwriting contests. His bestselling debut novel "The Sins of Jack Branson," adapted from the screenplay of the same name, was published in 2021. His critically acclaimed second novel "Andrezj of Hollywood" was published in 2023.David lives in Marlton, New Jersey with his husband Howie.

Book preview

Modern Myth Trilogy

2 of 3

Andrezj of Hollywood

a postmodern epic in eight parts

David Schulze

David Schulze Books | davidschulzebooks.com

David Schulze Books

Modern Myth Trilogy

1.     The Sins of Jack Branson

2.     Andrezj of Hollywood

3.     Olive Branch (2024)

Other Fiction

unplugged (2024)

Copyright © 2023 David Schulze

All rights reserved

Cover design by shommy

Published in the United States of America

ISBN-13

eBook: 978-1-7370378-4-2

Paperback: 978-1-7370378-3-5

Hardcover: 978-1-7370378-5-9

Andrezj of Hollywood is a work of exaggerated fiction loosely based on true events. 30% actually happened. 15% easily could’ve happened. The rest are lies. Any similarity to any real persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental and does not represent the intentions of the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author and a damn good reason.

Andrezj of Hollywood is the second installment of David Schulze’s Modern Myth Trilogy. It is highly recommended, though not required, for the reader to have finished The Sins of Jack Branson before starting Andrezj of Hollywood. Spoilers are incoming.

There are not enough words,

not enough phrases,

not enough ways I can properly express

just how much you’ve changed my life.

So I wrote this book as a consolation,

immortalizing a world in which you hadn’t.

It’s a sadder world. A colder world. A lonelier world.

It’s the world you saved me from.

And now, thanks to you,

it’s only fiction.

To Howie Schulze,

the best thing that ever happened to me.

Why did I ever say no to Charles? Everything could’ve been so much better.

—  Ms. Diana Spencer, RN to herself

as she waits in a McDonald’s drive-thru

August 31, 1997

PROLOGUE

Did You Know Him Well?

Drew clutches the practically full 750mL bottle of Domergue by its slender neck and chucks it across the conference room. Upon deafening impact the glass shatters into a million micro­scopic pieces, a razor-sharp mist floating down the air like a cloud of gnats. Poisoned Scotch spatters across the slamming door and ricochets onto the carpet. Vibrations of the collision echo throughout the room, shaking the overturned chairs, shimmying across the carpet, crawling up Drew’s legs and rattling his bones.

The metaphorical smoke clears from Drew’s elongated 80 proof baseball. A single unsmeared handprint reveals itself on the conference room door, a beautiful, seemingly phosphorescent scarlet stinging Drew’s eyes. Frankie was gone, racing down the stairs if not already outside. But did he really leave that room? Even if he had pushed the door with his left hand, the one covered in sweat instead of blood, could Drew really forget what just happened? What Frankie said? What he tried to do?

Nevertheless, Drew was alone.

Truly, utterly alone.

Here, at the end of his story, Drew Lawrence is forty-three years old. Black Armani suit custom-fitted to tastefully accentuate his Mike Trout proportions, from the curve of his objec­tively impressive biceps down to his toned thighs, the physique he spent twenty years and thousands of dollars manufacturing. Elephant gray Brooks Brothers dress shirt ripped under his right arm. Cut upper lip. Bleeding gums. Bloodshot eyes. Welted cheek. Bruises on both sides of his neck. Why is he hotter because of it? How is a bruised and battered exterior more alluring, more masculine?

Drew takes in short, jagged breaths, his muscles unbinding, the threat finally neutralized. He crouches to inspect the overturned chair. Lifts his eyes. Freezes, his lungs tightening with recog­nition.

Sitting on a coaster on Drew’s twenty-man mahogany conference table is a half-empty Water­ford crystal tumbler. Drew’s poisoned glass of 22yr Domergue Single Malt Scotch whisky. The venom survived, even after Drew overhanded Frankie the Traitor his farewell present. But so did Drew. Theo didn’t plan on that. He’ll take it out on Frankie, won’t he? Even though the botching wasn’t Frankie’s fault. It was the smell.

Theo managed to get poisoned whisky literally and figuratively under Drew nose, but even he underestimated how powerful that nose was. Even with a deviated septum and fifteen years of cocaine abuse, Drew could tell something wrong in that tumbler. Throughout the whole fucking bottle as it turned out. He was never one of those fickle winos whoring his tongue along the top shelf, palette abused by a myriad of flavors. Drew was a loyal son of a bitch. Practically a Domergue brand ambassador. He’d make a good one too. He had the scent fucking memorized.

Drew stands, his eyes fixed on that unmolested glass. The poisoned Domergue glances back, resting comfortably in its octagonal abode. Clear ice ball still geometrically intact. Waterford crystal condensing with oblivious tranquility. Did he underestimate Theo in return? Did he mean for Drew to spot the poison in time? Maybe it was never a true assassination attempt. Just a message. Look what you made me do, or something like that. That and See what you’ve done to your friend? He did choose Frankie of all people, not some Compton junkie. Or maybe Drew’s still in denial about it. Theo really truly tried to kill him.

And Frankie. His best friend. He just got here. Drew was hugging him just a few minutes before. They were catching up. Frankie even came bearing gifts. A peace offering, he said. He said a lot more after that. Too much.

Drew looks back at Frankie’s bloody handprint, gravity ushering amber streaks of Domergue across the crimson palm and thumb. What if Drew hadn’t noticed the poison in time? Would Frankie have stayed? Would he have watched?

Drew combs a tender hand across his hair, fingers mopping up a pungent, sticky mix of sweat and American Crew Pomade (an admittedly copious amount, just enough to keep his high shine life at medium hold). Tired. Hurt. Sad. Drew flips his Florentine leather chair right-side up and sits. Sits and stares. Stares out that window wall of his. That view of the Hollywood Sign. The nighttime view worth its weight in gold.

Four hours pass. Ephemeral Pictures’ newly refurbished, newly shabbied conference room is still the same. The shattered tumbler on the carpet. Frankie’s bloodied handprint shining on the door. The fine remains of his peace offering on the carpet below, soft glass ashes. The pile of old screenplays on the conference table, whisky ravaging through them like a bushfire, dissolv­ing the paper into a shriveled, spongy pulp. A crime scene without a body. For now.

Drew slouches in his chair, face hard and cold, replaying that fight with Frankie in his mind, silent as a GIF. He holds up his tumbler of poisoned Scotch. He hasn’t dumped it out yet. Why hasn’t he dumped it out yet? Why does he like looking at it? Why does it flatter him? Because he's actu­ally somebody worth assassinating. Who else can say that? And not with a paper knife, with Excalibur no less. What a way to go.

What if he drinks it anyway?

Drew’s throat closes up. He blinks. Looks up at the unrisen morning light. What’s more fucked up? The fact that he thought that at all? Or the fact that he’s still thinking about it?

It’s not just Frankie, is it? It’s everything. Everything’s gone so wrong. He used to be so loved. So popular. So respected. What happened? When did it all begin? So scary. He did the right thing. He kept doing the right thing. And yet here he is. No money. No prestige. No hope. He thought the era of spite was over. That awful time. All that hate. Those chickens coming home to roost. Snipping at his fingertips. Clawing at his kneecaps. Pecking his eyes out. He thought it was finally over. And now this. Is Frankie’s betrayal the climax? The Second Act Break? The First Act Break?

Oh fuck, it’s the cold open, isn’t it? The fucking prologue. This is never going to end.

It’s not even a misunderstanding. He earned it. He deserves it. It’s nobody’s fault but his. No one to pass the buck to. No one to cry to. No one to talk him down this time.

Drew stares into space. Thinks it over one last time. Lifts the octagonal tumbler like Yorick’s skull. Stares through the amber fog. That dark brown abyss obfuscating his view of Griffith Park. If the sun was rising, he wouldn’t have known. He takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Makes his choice. A few seconds pass. The crystal tumbler slips out of his fingers. Falls to the floor. Bounces away, ice and poisoned Domergue flying everywhere. Drew jolts up, stares at the mess, his strong body trembling with instant regret. It’s too late, isn’t it? He can’t change his mind now. He just has to wait. Prepare. Endure.

Drew Lawrence watches the morning light stroll down Sunset Boulevard frame-by-frame, on the edge of his seat, scared shitless of what’s gonna happen next.

PART ONE

Not Minding That It Hurts

JACOB

Choose Your Own Adventure

FADE IN:

INT. AIRPLANE - DUSK

JACOB ANDREZJ (21) stares at the back of the seat in front of him, his mind in another realm. A pair of THIN BROWN FRAMES rest atop his monstrous honker of a nose, magnifying glasses for lenses. He’s wearing an absolutely gorgeous RED LEATHER JACKET. Noticeably unkempt dark brown hair. Pimples on his forehead and cheeks. Awful posture showing off his fat, bouncy belly. To a stranger it would appear Jacob doesn’t care what he looks like. In reality he simply doesn’t know what he looks like.

PILOT (V.O.)

(British; over intercom)

Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to begin our descent into Boston. The sound you’ve just heard is our landing gear locking into place. The weather is clear, temperature seventy-two degrees. We expect to make our six-hour forty-minute flight on schedule.

Jacob slides the window shade up, the burnt sun barely hanging onto the western horizon, and a mix of emotions swirl across his face. Relief. Anxiety. Sadness. At what he’s not quite sure. Nothing. Every­thing. Both at once, if that was possible.

PILOT (V.O.)

Thank you for flying British Airways. We enjoyed having you on board and look forward to seeing you again in the future.

Jacob faces forward and closes his eyes.

CUT TO:

EXT. LOGAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT - NIGHT

Jacob waits in the car pickup zone. Nervously puts his iPhone to his ear. The dial tone rings three times and gets cut off.

VOICEMAIL (V.O.)

Please leave a message for… SIX. ONE. ZERO. NINE--

Jacob hangs up with disappointment.

JACOB

(breaking fourth wall)

You believe this shit? I thought I was supposed to be the child.

HONK-HONK! A pair of headlights turn onto the terminal’s drive, a BLACK HYUNDAI ELANTRA blasting Lone Digger by Caravan Palace, bass heavy electro-swing, and getting louder. Jacob pockets his phone, smiling with recognition.

RIAN HOFFMAN (21) pokes his head out of the Elantra’s front passenger window. Yellow flannel shirt. Large black glasses. Light gray Newsies cap. Charcoal hair is the same shade as his mustache and scruff.

RIAN

There he is! Jacob!

NICH HOLSTEIN (21) sticks his head out of the rear passenger window. Short fuchsia hair spiked like Sid Vicious. Enough earrings to hang a shower curtain. Thick nose ring fit for a Minotaur.

NICH

Jake!

JACOB

You’re fucking late!

TJ MASON (21) puts the car in park, an African American in a plaid burgundy button-up, black necktie, slim fit khakis, and wheat Timberland boots.

TJ

C’mon everyone, hurry up.

All three doors open at once, the young men pouring out like a NASCAR pit crew. Jacob’s already overwhelmed.

RIAN

(hugging Jacob)

Hey buddy! How was Italy?

JACOB

Unbelievable.

NICH

Love the jacket, dude!

JACOB

Thanks. Just got it.

Nich tries to grab the bag’s handle out of Jacob’s hand.

NICH

Someone pop the trunk.

JACOB

No, I’ll get it.

TJ bro-hugs Jacob long enough for Nich to roll the bag away. Rian pops the trunk. Nich lifts the bag, buckling.

NICH

Mother-FUCKER!

TJ runs over to help Nich.

TJ

Lift with your legs.

The two of them heave the bag into the trunk.

NICH

What the fuck do you have in here, Jake?

JACOB

Four months of clothes, some souvenirs--

RIAN

Think that was rhetorical.

JACOB

Course it was.

CUT TO:

INT. TJ’S ELANTRA - NIGHT

The lights of Boston streak by as TJ speeds down the highway. The Elantra’s interior is trimmed with custom LED strips, soothing blue raspberry light being the only other source of illumination. Rian sits in the passenger seat. Nich and Jacob sit in the back.

RIAN

How’re we doing on time?

TJ

We’ll hit King of Siam’s around 7:00. Should make it back to LB by 8:15.

RIAN

Perfect.

JACOB

Who’s coming?

RIAN

Pretty much everyone on Film Immersion. Max Ellis is bringing their MT buddies from the Weird One.

NICH

Trevor wanted to bring his roommate Matty. I said it was alright.

JACOB

That’s fine. I like Trevor.

TJ

Carter Jackson’s running late, but he said he’d stop by.

Jacob can’t help but smile from the name alone.

JACOB

Carter’s coming? I didn’t know that.

Rian and TJ give each other knowing looks. Jacob catches this. Self-consciously drops his smile.

NICH

What are you doing this summer, Rian?

RIAN

Nothing much. Just hanging around Savannah, avoiding my folks, same as last year.

JACOB

(to Nich)

You’re still doing the Battle of the Bands?

NICH

(proud)

Semifinals! Which is surprising, cause we suck without Jeremy.

TJ

What are you doing over the summer, Jake? Going back to your mom’s in Conshohickon?

JACOB

ConshoHOCKen, and no. I’m doing the janitor thing up here.

TJ

What janitor thing up here?

RIAN

Someone didn’t read Jacob’s Facebook post this morning.

TJ

Who does?

Everyone laughs except Jacob. Nich notices.

NICH

(to Jacob)

TJ can’t read. He just wikes to wook at the wittle piwctures.

TJ

Go fuck yourself.

Jacob smiles with gratitude at Nich.

JACOB

But to answer your question, TJ, Whitman’s paying me to stay behind and clean up the dorms.

TJ

That’s a thing?

JACOB

Every year apparently. Trevor did it last summer. He’s the one that told me about it.

NICH

Isn’t that really hard to get?

JACOB

They had a last-minute cancellation. Carter emailed me a couple months ago and asked if I wanted to do it.

RIAN

Did you tell your mom yet?

Jacob’s face hardens.

JACOB

Yeah. In London.

TJ

Seems a bit harsh, waiting till the day before move-out.

RIAN

You don’t know his mom.

TJ

What does that mean?

NICH

(to Jacob)

You never told him?

JACOB

It was two years ago.

NICH

You tell everyone!

TJ

Tell me what?

Jacob throws a look at Nich.

JACOB

(to TJ)

You know my parents got divorced, right?

TJ

Yeah.

NICH

Tell him where you were when they had that big--

JACOB

I’M telling it!

(pause)

My family went to Disney World right after I finished high school. Melanie’s graduation gift.

TJ

Where were you?

JACOB

Ireland. Eagle Ridge school trip.

RIAN

They went to Disney without you?

JACOB

They got the dates mixed up. It’s okay. I didn’t mind. I’ve been there enough. It’s not like I was missing anything.

NICH

Except--

JACOB

Nich, I swear to God!

NICH

Fine-fine-fine!

JACOB

(to TJ)

My parents had a huge fight down there and Mom asked Dad for a divorce. Karen overheard Mom talking on the phone with her lawyer and told Melanie about it before I got back from Ireland.

TJ

When did you find out?

JACOB

Six months later.

TJ

Six months?! Fuck! Why didn’t anyone tell you?

Jacob hesitates.

JACOB

Does it matter?

NICH

She sold the house too.

TJ

What house?

JACOB

The house in Phoenixville. Mom couldn’t afford it on her own.

TJ

How long were you there?

JACOB

Since I was six. Mom didn’t tell me until Christmas in the car on the way home from the airport.

TJ

Told you what?

JACOB

That she and my dad were getting a divorce and the house was already sold.

TJ

BOTH?!

NICH

Captive audience. Pretty ballsy of her.

JACOB

That’s one word for it.

Awkward silence. Rian looks back at Jacob.

RIAN

Well?

JACOB

Well what?

RIAN

When you told her about the janitor thing, how’d she take it?

JACOB

Not good.

(pause)

Not good at all.

No one talks.

NICH

Let’s get some music going, huh?

TJ

Absolutely. Jacob?

JACOB

Sure.

TJ hands back the AUX cord. Jacob plugs it into his iPhone. Scrolls through his Apple Music library. Looks out the window at you.

JACOB (CONT’D)

(breaking fourth wall)

Nich always picks something like Slipknot or Megadeath, and TJ’s gonna balance it out with some indie rock like Mumford and Sons or Fleet Foxes, so I should really pick something different.

(pause)

I’m really into Billy Joel at the moment, but I think that’s a bit too vanilla for these guys. Simon and Garfunkel too. I really should stick to 70s progressive rock. I know they like that. But the problem with Zeppelin is that their songs are either too mainstream, too weird, or just shit. And I know they all like Pink Floyd, but all the songs I like by them are twenty minutes long. They’re more of an album group anyway. I gotta think of something else.

(pause)

They don’t know much George Harrison.

Jacob scrolls through the track listing of All Things Must Pass.

JACOB (CONT’D)

(breaking fourth wall)

Isn’t it a Pity is really the best choice but it’s over seven minutes long. So it’s between Wah-Wah or Art of Dying.

(pause)

Art of Dying might be a bit too disco-y for Nich. Wah-Wah it is.

Jacob taps Wah-Wah. The strange guitar intro makes Nich raise his brow. The sudden joining in of the rest of the instruments perplex TJ and Rian.

NICH

What is this?

JACOB

Wah-Wah. George Harrison.

TJ

Don’t know it.

RIAN

You like the Beatles, don’t you Nich?

NICH

Don’t get me started.

TJ

They formed the foundation for all modern music.

NICH

The Velvet Underground & Nico did more for modern rock than Sgt. Pepper and I will die on that hill.

RIAN

Their popularity was what ushered the changes. No one outside Warhol’s inner circle even heard of the Velvet Underground until the 80s. And where would your band be without Helter Skelter?

JACOB

(meek)

Helter Skelter is on The White--

NICH

That is a BULLSHIT argument!

TJ

No yelling in my car.

RIAN

Did it not invent heavy metal?

NICH

NO! Helter Skelter is what mainstream normies THINK heavy metal sounds like! The Beatles are like Target. Just a bunch of different songs in a variety of styles and nothing beyond the surface. They should’ve just picked a lane and done it right!

Jacob tries his hardest to tune out the bickering and listen to the song.

TJ

So you’re saying Revolution 9 is just avant-garde 101?

NICH

No way! Revolution 9 is the only good thing they’ve ever done!

RIAN

Oh, you WOULD like Revolution 9!

Jacob closes his eyes with a lamentful sigh.

NICH

And let me tell you something else!

CUT TO:

INT. KING OF SIAM LIQUOR STORE - NIGHT

Jacob wanders down the whisky aisle, right hand grazing the bottlenecks like Maximus and the wheat in Gladiator. He can hear Nich, TJ, and Rian the next aisle over.

NICH (O.S.)

We really should get handles.

TJ (O.S.)

We gotta get going. The gas station closes at 8.

RIAN (O.S.)

Let’s just get seven and leave the rest for Jacob. He’s not going anywhere.

NICH (O.S.)

Make it an even eight then.

Jacob rounds the corner to see TJ and Rian holding FOUR HANDLES OF ROMANOFF VODKA each and Nich pulling out his wallet.

JACOB

Romanoff? Really?

NICH

You’re not buying.

JACOB

I’ll chip in if that means we can get the good stuff.

(crouches down)

Look, we can get a handle of Ultimo for...

Jacob bugs his eyes at the price tag.

JACOB (CONT’D)

What the FUCK?!

TJ

$35 for a handle? That’s actually not bad for Ultimo.

JACOB

You know much that would cost in Florence? Fifteen euro.

NICH

What is that?

JACOB

I dunno. Seventeen, eighteen dollars.

NICH

Oh. Cool. We’re not in Italy.

TJ stops in front of a locked case.

TJ

I don’t believe it! Guys, look at this!

TJ points up at a LARGE PARCHMENT BROWN BOX on the top shelf, the brand name handwritten in red cursive: DOMERGUE 15

TJ (CONT’D)

It’s the Scotch my dad drinks. He smuggles it out of Canada to avoid the tariffs.

Nich raises his brow at the price tag: $1,199.99

NICH

Does it give him an orgasm?

TJ

It probably tastes like shit.

NICH

Yeah, well some people are into that.

RIAN

I sure hope it tastes like shit.

JACOB

Can you imagine being able to afford a $1,200 bottle of shit just to be able to say you can afford a $1,200 bottle of shit?

NICH

I can barely afford eight $17 bottles of shit.

Jacob sighs, tracing the red cursive with his blue eyes.

JACOB

Don’t think we’ll be able to afford one of those for a while.

TJ

Speak for yourself.

Nich, TJ, and Rian head to the checkout counter. Jacob looks to the door. Wanders toward the exit.

NICH

Where’re you going?

JACOB

Just wanna get some air.

Jacob pushes the door.

CUT TO:

EXT. KING OF SIAM LIQUOR STORE - NIGHT

Jacob sits on the curb. Stretches out his legs. It’s quiet. No cars. Decaying Allston businesses across the street.

Rian comes out of the liquor store and plops down next to Jacob.

RIAN

Your mom got you all upset, huh?

Jacob nods softly.

JACOB

I called her to apologize just before you guys pulled up. She sent it to voicemail.

RIAN

What do you have to apologize for?

JACOB

She’s my mother.

RIAN

I definitely can’t relate to that.

(pause)

Why do you want to stay up here anyway?

JACOB

Ever since the divorce I’ve been bouncing place to place. Four months here, three months there, eight months here, three months there, four here, four more in Italy. I just wanted to stop.

Jacob looks at Rian, helpless.

JACOB (CONT’D)

That’s it. That’s all it was.

(pause)

And she didn’t believe me.

Rian frowns.

JACOB (CONT’D)

She thought I did it to get back at her for canceling her flight out there.

RIAN

Out where? To Italy?

JACOB

That was the plan. She was gonna meet me in Florence after classes were over and spend two weeks roaming the rest of Italy with me.

(pause)

We’d still be there right now.

RIAN

You really weren’t upset about that?

JACOB

Of course I was. But what was I gonna do? It’s her money. And she did just lose her job.

Jacob looks off, thinking.

JACOB (CONT’D)

Maybe it was revenge. Unconsciously. The timing of everything...

RIAN

What was the reason she didn’t want anyone telling you about the divorce? I don’t think you ever told me.

Jacob hesitates.

JACOB

She thought I’d be so distraught that I’d drop out of college.

Rian chuckles.

RIAN

She thought YOU would drop out?

JACOB

I know.

Rian leans back, shaking his head.

RIAN

She doesn’t know you at all, does she?

JACOB

(frowning)

That’s what I’m trying to get used to.

RIAN

You shouldn’t be blaming yourself. You’re a fucking adult. You’re not always going to be there at her beck and call.

JACOB

But didn’t I just prove her right?

RIAN

Huh?

JACOB

She thought it was in-character for me to get so emotional that I’d drop out of school. Didn’t I just prove her right?

RIAN

You’re staying on campus for an extra three months and getting paid for it. That’s not the same thing at all.

JACOB

But it wasn’t the plan. I made trouble when there wasn’t any.

RIAN

So?

JACOB

So that’s something Karen would do. That’s something Karen DID do.

RIAN

You’ve never disobeyed your mother? Ever?

JACOB

Not when I was living with her. I was always the amenable one. I liked it.

RIAN

And look how they repaid you.

Jacob wraps his arms around his legs. Rests his chin.

JACOB

This is probably the first real decision I’ve ever made. What if I just fucked up my life and don’t know it yet?

RIAN

Dude, it’s one summer.

JACOB

Mom had absolutely no idea when she got married that she’d end up regretting it in thirty years. She always said it was the happiest day of her life. What if this is one of those? How would I know?

Rian looks off, unsure how to respond.

RIAN

Does it feel right at least?

JACOB

No, it really doesn’t. No thanks to her. GOD, she really just...!

Jacob shakes his head.

JACOB (CONT’D)

Why can’t she care about my feelings just as much as I care about hers?

They sit in silence. Rian sits back up, wiping his hands together.

RIAN

We’re gonna be fine, man. Just think. This time next year we’ll be in LA, living it up and making our dreams come true. They’re just four people you used to live with. Don’t let ‘em weigh you down.

JACOB

It’s not that simple.

RIAN

Make it that simple.

JACOB

Those people were my entire life for eighteen years. What, am I supposed to just move on from that?

RIAN

Why not? They did.

Jacob goes quiet.

JACOB

(whispers)

I just want it all to have been worth it.

RIAN

You didn’t have them in Florence. Fuck, you didn’t have anyone! Every person you ever met was 4,000 miles away. You were on the complete other side of the world.

Jacob doesn’t speak. Thinks.

RIAN (CONT’D)

It wasn’t so bad, was it?

JACOB

Suppose not.

RIAN

Look what you had out there. Homemade pasta. Cheap booze. Priceless paintings. Museums. Gigantic buildings. You wrote a couple more features.

JACOB

Fucked around.

Rian chuckles suggestively.

RIAN

Oh yeah.

JACOB

Watched a man die.

Jacob looks at Rian with pursed lips. Rian simmers down. Jacob looks away, suddenly self-conscious.

JACOB (CONT’D)

I’m over it. Really I am.

Rian sighs.

RIAN

My point is, why should you have to stop now that you’re back? Keep living your best life up here. Write another movie. Blast your records. Fucking streak through the halls.

Jacob laughs. Smiles at Rian.

JACOB

I really missed you, man.

RIAN

I missed you too, buddy.

Rian puts a hand on Jacob’s shoulder.

JACOB

I wish we didn’t have the party tonight.

RIAN

How come?

JACOB

I only get you guys for one night. It really should be just the four of us.

RIAN

We’re hanging out now, aren’t we?

JACOB

Rushing around doing errands isn’t really the same thing.

Rian thinks.

RIAN

How about we get really fucked up tonight and at four in the morning we all go to South Street Diner for some pancakes?

JACOB

You really wanna stay up that late?

RIAN

Nich and I aren’t flying till noon.

JACOB

TJ’s driving to Michigan.

RIAN

He slept all day. C’mon, it’ll be great.

Jacob thinks it over.

JACOB

I'm not gonna drink.

RIAN

C’mon, dude! We’re celebrating. Who cares if it’s cheap vodka?

JACOB

It’s not that.

(pause)

I don’t want to drink. It’s my last night with you guys till Labor Day. I want to remember everything.

Rian takes a deep breath with a hint of a smile.

RIAN

Dude... Do whatever the fuck you want.

Jacob grins.

WHALE

Waiting for Rapture

Normally Whale sleeps like a rock, even before busy days or in anticipation of all-or-nothing emails, but today’s different. Can’t still be jet lag. He’s been acclimated to Pacific Time for two weeks now. Yet there he was, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling of that North Hollywood ranch house, the sun at an angle he seldom sees.

Whale slides out of bed, slips on a pair of silk pajama pants, knots the little tassels just enough to prevent another Alex pantsing, and slides open the glass door. His bare feet crunch the cold dew-drenched grass. He lowers his butt to the ground, lies on his back, and stares up at the light blue sky.

The shade’s colder than Whale had anticipated, his shirtless torso goosebumping, but he powers through it. Wraps his big arms under his head for support. Just lays there, a slight smile cropping onto his face. He’s got plenty of time. Nothing to do besides dress, eat something, and head out. He can even make eye contact with God without that pesky sun blinding him, melting his eyes like the wax wings of Icarus. And he gets to notice the silence. The beeping of a garbage truck far away. The soft whisper of commuters on the 101.

Whale takes in a slow, long waft of warm California air, holds it in, and slowly lets it out.

WHALE

(whispers)

Thank you.

The morning sun finally pokes its face over the fence, a burst of light hitting Whale’s lean chest and toned shoulders, a sudden warmth he can feel in his pits. Anyone else might see the timing as just coincidence, but Whale knows what it really is. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or just narcissistic projection, it’s what he chooses to believe. He doesn’t need to prove it to anyone else.

Whale instinctively reaches down for his phone, hitting flat pocket instead. If only he had the foresight to bring it out with him. Some Pet Shop Boys would be perfect right now. Was it really worth getting up, racing back into the house, grabbing his phone, and lying back down on the cold wet grass just to have a soundtrack? Whale thinks that over for a few seconds. Yes. Yes, it was. He hops up, waddles back inside, unplugs his iPhone, dashes back onto the grass and plops down in the same spot. He flips through his exhaustive PSB collection and picks the song most sonically appropriate for laying on morning grass: Was It Worth It?, one of two previously un­released singles on their 1991 greatest hits album Discography: The Complete Singles Collection. He has the CD now. And how fitting he play this song today of all days, considering—

Whale jolts up. It happened again. It’s been happening a lot lately. Whale’s actually getting used to it. But this was different. This one actually freaked him out.

You’re not one of those tai chi freaks, are you?

Whale sees Alex standing at the open backdoor, eating a bowl of cereal in an orange bathrobe stinking of weed. Or maybe it was CBD cereal, the kind dispensaries craft out of low-profit des­peration. Oh who was he kidding, the smell was Alex. Even an NFL ref could see the dude was a human bong.

WHALE

No. Not a morning person at all, actually.

Alex wipes a bit of milk from the edge of his mouth. Why start now?

Because God is real and talks to Whale through a series of loosely connected and easily explainable coincidences, dumbass.

WHALE

Couldn’t sleep.

Oh shit, Alex says, realizing. It’s today, isn’t it?

WHALE

Last I checked.

Alex rolls his eyes. Your internship.

WHALE

I know what you meant. Just roasting ya, boy.

Whale stands, taking his time. He catches Alex staring at his chest. He doesn’t know if that flatters or grosses him out.

WHALE (CONT’D)

What?

What’s that music? Alex murmurs.

WHALE

The Pet Shop Boys.

Alex doesn’t react.

WHALE (CONT’D)

Remember? The gay British group from the 80s?

Oh yeah. Right. Alex swirls his cereal around with his novelty Toy Story spoon, his unfo­cused eyes staring at Whale’s upper body. You have unbelievable shoulders. What the fuck.

WHALE

Pull ups, my dude. Best workout in the world.

I can see that. Alex nods ambiently for a few moments. He abruptly turns and wanders back toward his kitchen.

Whale takes a shower. American Crew Daily Cleansing Shampoo. American Crew Daily Moisturizing Conditioner. Every Man Jack Cedar + Red Sage 3-in-1 All Over Wash. He steps out to shave. Gillette Foamy Sensitive Skin shaving cream. Gillette Fusion 5 razor (fresh refill of course). Aqua Velva. Degree Ultraclear Black + White 72hr Dry Spray Antiperspirant. Derma­tologica Intensive Moisture Cleanser. Dermatologica Skin Smoothing Cream. He blow dries his hair. Runs a brush over the clumps. American Crew Forming Cream. Spritz of Unpredictable Pour Homme by Glenn Perri. Done. Only took two hours.

Whale dons a periwinkle button-up in his room, a slim-fit Oxford collar with stretch tech­nology. He gazes at his handsome self in the full-length mirror. The Pulp Fiction poster behind him moves, catching his eye. The bottom left-hand corner’s curling up again.

WHALE

Darn it.

Whale approaches Uma Thurman and pushes the corner with one finger as hard as he could, the Command strip squeezing against the wall. He steps back. Waits. Nothing. Good.

Whale returns to the mirror. Unbuttons his Oxford collar. Ties his silk tie, a beautiful blue one with black and silver stripes. He looks out the door at Alex assembling another bowl of cereal, studying his roommate from afar. His curiously alien habit of milk-first, cereal-second. The way his long hairless legs hog the chair next to him. The fact that his stained orange bathrobe hasn’t left his sweaty body since Whale first moved in. What a loser. All his fault too. Whale asked for his story early on and Alex gladly divulged everything.

Alex Avery was once a third-generation Ivy Leaguer with a lawyer daddy and CFO mommy, full of privilege, promise and potential to thrive in such a capitalist, mutual back-scratching society. But what did Alex do? He dropped out of Yale, flew out to LA, and used his trust fund to buy a ranch house to lie around all day, drink booze, smoke copious amounts of weed (and sometimes meth), party every night with his yuppie friends, play Xbox Live for hours on end, watch The Wolf of Wall Street on repeat, and use his desktop computer exclusively for jerking off to yaoi. And that’s not Whale passing judgment, that’s literally what Alex told him. The dude was bragging!

Whale wanders into the kitchen, fully dressed and ready to go. He checks his phone. The closest Ridr is 15 minutes away. Just enough time for coffee. Whale pops in a dark roast pod and lets the Keurig do its thing. Whale watches Alex clip each toenail with one-and-done precision. As he reaches for his right pinkie toe, Alex readjusts his ass, a sharp little jiggle, his genitals shamelessly flopping out of his bathrobe. Whale discreetly looks away.

I used the last of the almond milk, Alex mutters, his eyes fixed on his toes.

WHALE

Don’t worry, I take it black.

(smirks)

Like my men.

Alex scoffs. Very original.

WHALE

Ah, but I wasn’t trying to be original. ‘Twas an homage.

Alex looks up at Whale, his brows together. You’re fucking weird, you know that?

The Keurig sputters, its job done. Whale holds the steaming hot cup, processing Alex’s jape.

WHALE

Because I said ‘twas?

That, and you’re a grown man that can’t curse.

WHALE

I actually can curse, I just choose not to.

La-dee-fuckin-da.

Whale blows the top of his coffee. Puts the mug down to roll up his sleeves.

How’re you doing on time? Alex asks.

Whale checks his watch.

WHALE

All good.

Where is it?

WHALE

Century City. You know where that is?

Of course. You know, you’d get there faster if you took the Metro.

WHALE

I’ll get around to that. Wanna be above ground for a while. Soak it all in.

I get that.

Whale sips his coffee. Looks up at Alex.

WHALE

Hey, I don’t wanna get weird or anything.

Uh-huh, Alex says, amused.

WHALE

Just... Thanks dude, you know, for...

Whale gestures around at Alex’s house.

WHALE (CONT’D)

You have no idea how grateful I am.

Don’t sweat it, bro.

WHALE

Is there anything I can do to...? As long as it’s legal. I don’t mind you doing drugs in the house, just don’t expect me to buy any.

You can stop at Trader Joe’s and get some more almond milk.

WHALE

I don’t know when they’re letting us out. It might be closed by the time I get there.

Doesn’t have to be Trader Joe’s. There’s a Gelson’s at the Westfield out there. I know they don’t close till 10.

Whale chuckles awkwardly.

WHALE

I’m sorry, I don’t...

The grocery store at the mall, Alex clarifies. I don’t care what size you get. Just make sure it’s unsweetened vanilla.

WHALE

Unsweetened vanilla. Got it.

The Gelson’s under the Westfield.

Whale chuckles.

WHALE

Is that the only grocery store in the mall?

Pretty sure.

Whale nods, finally sipping his coffee.

WHALE

You going out tonight or staying in?

My buddy Mason’s got this thing down in La Brea. Alex pauses. Wanna come along?

Whale downplays his excitement.

WHALE

Sure. Why not.

Cool. Alex stands, refolding his bathrobe. I gotta piss, so... See you whenever.

WHALE

Yeah. Seeya.

Whale watches Alex wander off, amazed by that unexpected display of human nuance. The dude might’ve been a pitiable burnout, but what Alex lacked in ambition he sure made up for it in social graces.

Whale opens the blue Prius door parked on Calvert Street, scooting all the way over to the other side.

WHALE

Darryl?

Yup. Darryl officially accepts the ride request and puts the Prius back into drive. As he turns onto Ethel Avenue toward Oxnard, Darryl gets another look at his passenger. Clean shaven. Early twenties. Wide-eyed. Too interested in the palm trees. Definitely a tourist. Lots of East Coast energy. Century City, huh?

WHALE

Yup.

Locals don’t normally Ridr to Century City, Darryl says, turning onto Coldwater Canyon Avenue. It’s faster if you take the Metro.

WHALE

So I’ve heard.

Didn’t know there was a subway out here, huh?

WHALE

No, I knew.

Really.

WHALE

Yeah. Really.

Darryl shrugs it off. Cool. He pauses. How long you in town for?

WHALE

Forever, I guess. Hopefully.

Darryl looks back at Whale. First time in LA?

WHALE

Yup.

Thought so.

Whale looks at the back of Darryl’s headrest. Why would he say that?

WHALE

I snagged a paid internship with The Professor.

The Professor, huh?

WHALE

You know The Professor?

"Of course. The guy who did Rant."

WHALE

And others.

Anything I’ve heard of?

WHALE

Alabaster King.

"I didn’t know he did Alabaster King."

WHALE

Dust Storm. You ever see that?

I think so. It was probably one of those free On Demand movies.

WHALE

What did you think of it?

Darryl shrugs. Has he done anything in the last twenty years?

WHALE

You ever see Something Original?

Darryl hesitates.

WHALE (CONT’D)

That’s the name of the movie.

Oh. No, should I have?

WHALE

It won Best Picture.

Oh, I remember it now. He wrote it?

WHALE

And produced it.

Gotcha. Darryl nods. "Funny title, considering it’s a blatant rip-off of The Odd Couple and All About Eve."

WHALE

He produces full-time now.

Oh, that’s a relief.

WHALE

My internship’s at his development company, The Factory.

Cool, Darryl murmurs, zooming through Mulholland Drive. Never heard of it.

WHALE

It’s only for recent college graduates. He gets 15,000 applications a year and only picks four. I’m one of the four.

How’s it going so far?

WHALE

Don’t know yet. It’s my first day.

Darryl nods broadly.

WHALE (CONT’D)

So how long have you been driving for Ridr?

Long enough.

WHALE

You must like it a lot.

No. After a moment Darryl adds, I’m not as lucky as you in the internship department.

WHALE

Is this what you wanted to be growing up? A Ridr driver?

Darryl chuckles bitterly. An actor.

WHALE

You can still be an actor.

Darryl weaves through the Beverly Ridge Estates. The older I get, the more I realize it’s just you turning off your mind and renting out your body for bureaucratic assholes to say stupid lines in stupid costumes. He looks up at Whale’s reflection. What’s your contribution to the machine? Directing?

WHALE

Writing.

A writer! Darryl says, mock impressed. The next Tarantino or the next Sorkin?

Whale doesn’t answer.

Darryl shrugs. Maybe you’ll reroute and become the next Stephen King instead. Or the next J.K. Rowling. The next Tennessee Williams.

Whale looks out the window.

Darryl sighs pleasantly, turning onto Sunset Boulevard. I’ve driven hundreds of guys like you over the last ten years. You know how many of them actually become the next Martin Scorsese or Bill Gates or whatever? None. He looks up at the rearview mirror. I hope you do though. That way I can tell the next guy, ‘Hey, guess what, I drove so-and-so back when he was a nobody, before he started that internship with The Professor that started it all.’

WHALE

I hope so too.

What will you do if The Professor doesn’t give you the job? What’s the backup plan?

WHALE

Don’t have one.

No family?

WHALE

Not one I’d go back to with a tail between my legs.

Doesn’t sound like much of a cushion.

WHALE

Which is why I need the job.

(pause)

And just might be why I get it.

Darryl gets on the Santa Monica, quickly exits onto the Avenue of the Stars, and parks outside a harmless looking two-story office building. This it?

WHALE

Think so.

Whale steps out of the Prius, softly closing the door behind him. Darryl doesn’t waste time driving off. Whale watches the Prius fade into the distance. Pulls up the Ridr app. Rates Darryl 5-stars. Adds a $20 tip. He imagines Darryl’s phone ka-chinging and his shocked eyes and his audible laugh as he grins his way onto State Route 2.

Whale locks his phone with a soft smile. All day he’s said only the right things, easily manag­ing himself in the face of strangers like Alex and Darryl, not letting his first impulses ruin his fresh start. And it all came so naturally. He looks up at the sky. Yes, to answer your question. Yes it was.

Whale whips open the door and marches into The Factory.

JACOB

Rotten Tomatoes

INT. WHITMAN UNIVERSITY - LITTLE BUILDING - SUITE 710 - NIGHT

Jacob steps out of his single room and quickly shuts the door.

The entire suite is packed with COLLEGE STUDENTS of all genders, races, nationalities, body types, sexualities, and hair colors (natural or not). Uptown Funk by Mark Ronson feat. Bruno Mars blasts from a bass-heavy Bluetooth speaker somewhere.

Jacob soaks in the loud, chatty menagerie of familiar faces. His smile slowly disappears.

CUT TO:

KITCHENETTE

Jacob leans against the cheap countertop. YAN PARK (22), a Korean Publishing Major with an Americanized accent and a Jane Austen T-Shirt, talks to him.

YAN

Love the jacket.

JACOB

Thanks.

YAN

It’s very Star-Lord.

JACOB

That’s more burgundy, but... Yeah, thanks. I just got it.

YAN

In Florence, right?

JACOB

Yeah.

YAN

Didn’t know we had a program in Florence.

JACOB

Oh, we don’t. I did the whole external program thing. I was the only Whitman guy there. Everyone else was either from University of Pittsburgh, UC Boulder, or University of Indiana. And a semester in Florence’s cheaper than a semester in Boston apparently.

YAN

Not shocked.

JACOB

Yeah.

YAN

God, it must’ve been so amazing over there.

JACOB

Oh my God, yeah. I walked past the Duomo every day to get to class. The coffee is just out of this world. Everything’s all old-world, you know? No subways or public transportation. And there’s tourists and all, but actually living there, I really got to see the real Florence.

Yan’s already losing interest.

YAN

You got any pictures?

JACOB

They really don’t do it justice. It’s not about resolution, it’s really about scope. Cameras can’t even capture just the sheer sense of puniness you feel standing among those things. The David is, like, eleven feet tall.

YAN

Excuse me.

Yan wanders away. Jacob’s smile drops, suddenly self-aware.

JACOB

Dammit.

CUT TO:

BY THE BATHROOM MIRROR

Jacob fills up a RED CANTEEN in one of the twin sinks. Standing by the other is Nich and TREVOR MILLER (21), a long-haired Post Malone fan with an oversized camo jacket and black Sharpie nail polish. They’re taking hits from a geeb carved out of an empty 1L Pepsi bottle. Jacob watches them, impressed by the contraption.

Blowing out smoke, Trevor meets eyes with Jacob.

TREVOR

(holding out geeb)

Wanna hit?

JACOB

I’m good, thanks.

NICH

Jake doesn’t smoke.

TREVOR

Oh. Sorry.

JACOB

It’s okay.

Nich and Trevor wander back to the living room. Jacob watches them go, frowning slightly.

CUT TO:

IN THE HALLWAY

Jacob stands across from MATTY KLEIN (20), a clean-cut redhead drinking an IPA.

JACOB

You’re a Screenwriting Major too, right?

MATTY

Yeah.

JACOB

Working on anything lately?

MATTY

Not really. My suitemate’s friend Tim asked me to write a short for him, but I don’t know... I don’t think I’m very good at it.

Jacob forces a laugh. Matty nods, looking off. Jacob takes a deep breath.

MATTY (CONT’D)

What about you? You working on anything?

Jacob hesitates.

JACOB

Kinda.

MATTY

What is it?

Jacob scratches the back of his head.

JACOB

A feature.

MATTY

A feature. Wow.

JACOB

I know. It’s not my first either.

MATTY

How many have you written?

Jacob hesitates.

JACOB

This would be five.

Matty coughs on his beer.

MATTY

Five? Shit.

JACOB

Yeah.

Matty and Jacob stand awkwardly.

MATTY

What’s it about?

JACOB

A dark comedy set in a Beef ‘n’ Fries. I’m going for Clerks meets Black Swan.

MATTY

Clerks meets Black Swan?

JACOB

Not as silly as it sounds.

MATTY

How does Black Swan fit in?

JACOB

It’s a bit complicated.

Matty nods awkwardly.

JACOB (CONT’D)

I used to work there. That’s where I came up with the idea.

MATTY

Fry cook?

JACOB

Drive-thru.

MATTY

Ah.

JACOB

That’s what it’s called, actually. Drive-Thru.

MATTY

What’s it like working there? Pretty shitty?

JACOB

On principle it kinda sucked, but the location was good for traffic and it wasn’t too dirty. Most of my co-workers sucked, but all the ones I really hate aren’t there anymore, so it probably wouldn’t have been so bad going back.

Matty bursts out laughing.

JACOB (CONT’D)

No, really, it probably wouldn’t have been.

MATTY

No, just the way you said it was so...

Matty laughs some more.

JACOB

I wasn’t trying to be funny.

MATTY

I don’t know. I thought it was funny.

Jacob nopes out of there.

MATTY (CONT’D)

(calling after him)

Oh, c’mon! You’re really funny!

CUT TO:

INSIDE JACOB’S ROOM

Jacob buries his face in his hands, his frames resting atop his hair, door closed and locked, the crowd chatter and music signif­icantly muffled.

Jacob’s single room is just as he left it back in January. Movie posters on the walls (Pulp Fiction, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Cloud Atlas, The Lord of the Rings Trilogy). Criminally small bed raised three feet off the ground like a top bunk without a bottom. Gorgeous microfiber comforter in red, black and elephant gray. Extra wide computer monitor on the desk with an HDMI cable hanging out. Papers, textbooks, and Snickers wrappers on the floor. Black mini-fridge under the bed.

Jacob takes deep, uncomfortable breaths. He rips off his red leather jacket and throws it on the floor.

CUT TO:

INSIDE TJ’S ROOM

Jacob pours a shot of Romanoff into a cup. Tops it off with orange juice. Takes a sip. Smacks his tongue around. Adds more vodka.

KYLIEE MARIE (20) and CLEM WANAMAKER (21) gab behind him. Kyliee’s a short Production Design major with luscious curls and an emerald dress. Clem’s an overweight Directing Major with mermaid-blue hair in a heather gray tank top, My Neighbor Totoro pajama bottoms, and rose-gold Harry Potter glasses.

CLEM

You hear back from Comic Con yet?

KYLIEE

I got in!

CLEM

No way! That’s great!

Jacob invites himself into the conversation.

JACOB

How did that happen?

KYLIEE

I told them I was a contributor for Whitty Entertainment and that was it. They’re sending me a press pass and everything.

JACOB

Oh wow. That’s great, Kyliee.

KYLIEE

(to Clem)

And guess who’s having a meet and greet Day One? Hayley Atwell.

CLEM

Ah! You’re so lucky!

JACOB

Who’s Hayley Atwell?

KYLIEE

She plays Peggy Carter, Cap’s girlfriend.

JACOB

Oh.

(pause)

I don’t like the MCU.

Clem and Kyliee nod dismissively. Look at each other. Jacob frowns.

CLEM

You gonna cosplay as Peggy when you meet her?

KYLIEE

I don’t know. Wouldn’t that be a bit hokey?

Jacob looks out into the hall. His jaw slacks. Dream Weaver plays in his mind.

Walking toward him in warm, misty slow-motion is CARTER JACKSON (21), Directing Major and Film Immersion’s RA. Slim-fit button-down with the sleeves rolled up. Rugby physique. Hairy forearms. Scruffy jawline. Bright blue eyes. Blond fauxhawk. Bold white teeth. Natural smile.

CARTER

Hey Jake. Welcome back.

Carter wraps an arm across Jacob’s shoulders. The warmth of his athletic body and the smell of his woodsy cologne instantly makes Jacob hard.

JACOB

Thanks.

(clears throat)

Saw the trailer for Smashers. Looks really good.

Kyliee stops talking at the sight of Carter, her smile gone. Carter looks back.

CARTER

(to Jacob; distracted)

Thanks. It was a lotta fun.

Clem whispers to Kyliee.

CARTER (CONT’D)

Hey, Kyliee.

Kyliee heads out, bumping into Carter. Clem awkwardly squeezes past Carter and follows her.

JACOB

What’s all that about?

CARTER

She’s just weird, bro.

JACOB

I don’t mind Kyliee. She’s really nice.

Carter shrugs. Drinks from his cup.

CARTER

You looking forward to caretaking the Overlook, Mr. Torrance?

JACOB

I don’t really know what to expect.

CARTER

It’s not that bad. If you need anything I’ll be just down the hall.

Jacob’s face goes numb.

JACOB

You’re staying behind too?

CARTER

Yeah. I always do.

Jacob smiles. Takes a big sip.

JACOB

You wanna hang out sometime? I got a whole chest of Blu-Rays. We can watch something.

CARTER

I’d love to, man, but I got a whole bunch of RA shit to do.

JACOB

Whenever you want.

Carter looks down the hall with concern.

CARTER

I gotta ask Kyliee something.

JACOB

Yeah. Sure.

CARTER

Great talking to you, bro.

JACOB

Yeah. You too.

Carter claps Jacob’s shoulder and wanders off. Jacob watches every second, a quivering horny mess.

CUT TO:

BY THE FRONT DOOR

Jacob’s halfway through his second screwdriver and talking to MAX ELLIS (21) and TABITHA MACLEAN (21). Max is a twinkish Cinematography Major with a light brown bowl cut, sharp shoulders and noticeable vitiligo on their arms. Tabitha is a black Marketing Major in a denim jacket with large hair and a nose stud.

MAX

The nuclear family was never about cultivating happiness. It’s just a way for privileged white guys to justify their world as the social standard.

JACOB

But what’s wrong with a standard every now and then? In this country, everyone has the ability to do whatever the fuck they want with their lives--

TABITHA

Not everyone!

JACOB

I know that, but our society is literally based on choices. We don’t have to go to school if we don’t want to. We don’t have to believe in a bearded man in the sky granting wishes and bribing us into being good people.

TABITHA

Some of us don’t even have to pay taxes.

JACOB

Exactly, we do whatever we want. But how do we know what we want? Isn’t everything just a reaction to how we were raised? Everything is groups in Italy. You don’t go out to eat in a restaurant, you go home and eat with your family. And bars aren’t places to meet strangers, they’re places you go with your friends. Honestly I kinda like that better. It’s so exhausting DIY-ing everything all the time.

MAX

Do you actually want your parents to get back together?

JACOB

I dunno. Mom wasn’t really happy with him. But on the other she single-handedly destroyed our family unit, literally throwing away my childhood home in the process. And she doesn’t stop talking shit about him. It’s awful. She has no idea how much damage she’s causing just to make herself feel better.

TABITHA

But that’s exactly Max’s point. You feel incomplete without a nuclear family. THAT’S the problem.

MAX

It’s not a problem, it’s fucking evil! It’s a racist, classist, homophobic social construct that straight white men have been using to marginalize people like us for centuries!

JACOB

So what, I’m supposed to feel guilty I had a normal upbringing?

MAX

SEE? You just called it normal. My dad forces me to use male pronouns when I come home. He gets away with it because I depend on him financially. How is that normal?

JACOB

I didn’t mean it like that.

TABITHA

This is such a first world problem. I never knew my dad and I turned out fine.

MAX

Some people don’t even have a family. Consider yourself lucky.

JACOB

Oh yes, I’m so lucky to have a family of Trump supporters.

Max and Tabitha GAG simultaneously.

CUT TO:

INSIDE RIAN’S ROOM

Jacob finishes his third screwdriver on Rian’s stripped bed. Rian plops down next to him with a handle of Romanoff.

RIAN

Want another?

JACOB

We’re out of OJ.

RIAN

So?

JACOB

I told myself I’d drink until I ran out of OJ.

RIAN

It’s still early. Are you even buzzed?

Jacob shrugs.

RIAN (CONT’D)

(taking Jacob’s cup)

We’re doing a shot.

JACOB

Not a big shot.

RIAN

We’ll take it slow.

JACOB

Are we still going to South Street after this?

RIAN

Of course.

JACOB

You promise?

RIAN

Promise.

Rian hands Jacob’s cup back. They toast. Drink. Rian rolls his throat. Jacob doesn’t.

JACOB

Another.

Rian pours two more. They down it fast.

RIAN

Fuck!

Jacob laughs, wiping his lips.

JACOB

Yeah, I think that’s it for me.

CUT TO:

INSIDE NICH’S ROOM

Jacob pours another shot, mid-conversation with Max and ARELI SANCHEZ (21), a snarky dark-skinned Latina Musical Theatre Major with a long black ponytail and dimples.

JACOB

Physical media just means more to me, you know? Blu-Rays are so affordable now.

ARELI

I’m really into vinyl.

MAX

Me too.

JACOB

Me too. I’ve got a whole record collection in my room.

ARELI

Ooh! What do you have?

JACOB

Everything. Beatles, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Eagles, Elton... I’m trying to find a good Billy Joel greatest hits but there doesn’t seem to be one with all the songs I like. He’s got so many.

MAX

Got any Gaga?

Jacob hesitates.

JACOB

No, but I’ve got all three Adeles, a couple Andrea Bocellis, all of Evanescence, Postmodern Jukebox, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Simon and Garfunkel, Peter, Paul and Mary, ABBA, Meat Loaf--

ARELI

Childish Gambino?

JACOB

No. You know what’s funny, I didn’t realize Childish Gambino and Donald Glover were the same person until last year.

(pause)

That’s not racist, is it?

MAX

I could really do for some Hamilton.

ARELI

Oh my God, I LOVE Hamilton!

JACOB

Haven’t seen it yet.

MAX

Neither have I. Just listen to the album. It’s the whole show.

Jacob scrunches his face. Shakes it.

JACOB

No. I don’t think I’d like it.

ARELI

It’s a hip-hop musical.

JACOB

Exactly. And the hype doesn’t help.

MAX

It won the Pulitzer for a reason.

JACOB

That doesn’t help either.

ARELI

Do you have anything from the 80s?

JACOB

No way. I hate the 80s.

MAX

(scoffing)

What DON’T you hate?

Jacob blinks.

JACOB

I already told you. Do you want me to list it again?

CUT TO:

IN THE HALLWAY

Jacob pleads with an irate Tabitha. They’re both drunk.

JACOB

I wasn’t trying to be offensive.

TABITHA

Doesn’t matter, you should never use that word!

JACOB

I have autism. I don’t find it offensive.

TABITHA

Just because you don’t doesn’t mean other people don’t. It’s incredibly derogatory.

JACOB

I have more of a right to say it than you.

TABITHA

That doesn’t matter. It’s about creating a safe space for people whose disabilities aren’t obvious.

JACOB

When I hear someone say...

(whispers)

...retarded...

(normal volume)

...I don’t think of it as a slur because to me it’s just a word.

TABITHA

To the rest of the autistic community it’s not just a word.

JACOB

Well I AM autistic and I’m saying it’s not! If you take the meaning away from the word, it stops being a slur! Autistic people get that! We have way thicker skins than you think we do!

TABITHA

I understand you’re upset, but you have to remember that there are hundreds of disabilities and plenty of people without the privilege you have.

JACOB

I’M privileged? I’m the one with the autism here!

TABITHA

You’re very high functioning.

JACOB

It’s a fucking spectrum!

Tabitha sighs.

TABITHA

Just consider a world where no one calls people with disabilities the r-word. That would be pretty good, wouldn’t it?

JACOB

Of course.

TABITHA

We have a duty to tell other people to change their actions so they don’t cause marginalized people harm. Derogatory jokes at their expense, slurs, outdated ways of thinking. The key is to make a safe space for everyone to feel comfortable, right?

Jacob hesitates.

JACOB

But I don’t like telling people what not to say.

TABITHA

I know it feels like that, but remember the big picture. Silence is the reason we have these problems in the first place. Doing nothing makes you part of the problem.

Jacob sighs.

JACOB

You’re right. I’m sorry.

CUT TO:

INSIDE JACOB’S ROOM

Jacob bites his nails. Notices a HANDLE OF ROMANOFF on his desk. Spits out some cuticles.

He grabs a new cup. Fills it halfway with vodka. The smell alone gives him pause. He looks into the cup. Swishes it around.

JACOB

Fuck it.

He clogs his nose. Gulps the cup down. Coughs up a bit. Wipes the drips off his chin. Shakes his head around. Chuckles.

CUT TO:

IN THE LIVING ROOM

Trevor smokes his geeb and passes it to Jacob. Jacob immediately passes it on to TJ. Nich sits in a side-chair.

JACOB

(sloshed)

If you have to explain to me why I’m watching a twelve hour one-take of the Empire State Building, it’s not art.

TJ hits the geeb. Passes it to Nich.

NICH

Just because there isn’t a story doesn’t mean it isn’t art. The three-act structure wasn’t in Aristotle’s Poetics, it was invented in ‘79 by Syd Field. He figured out the perfect psychological formula to keep as many eyes on screen as long as possible, and Hollywood labeled it the standard so they could teach it to film students and keep the cycle going.

Nich hits the geeb. Passes it to Trevor.

JACOB

That’s bullshit.

NICH

Wake the fuck up, Jake. We’ve been programmed to idolize fast-paced movies because corporations want us under their control. Look what Hollywood is famous for. Product placement. Wartime propaganda.

JACOB

What about auteurs? They don’t have producer oversight. They can do whatever they want.

NICH

They’re still putting their personal views in our faces. That’s more dangerous. The brainwashing is our idea.

TJ

You’re giving Hollywood way too much credit, Nich. It’s the laziest industry in the world. Blockbusters are safe investments, that’s all. Art is just another word for what’s selling.

JACOB

And arthouse doesn’t sell.

TJ

Neither do auteur films. True creativity’s impossible to achieve when you throw profit in the mix.

JACOB

What about Oscar films? Those are some of the best of all time.

TJ

Maybe in the beginning, but they’re certainly no good now.

JACOB

I wouldn’t have seen half the movies on my Top 100 list if they weren’t highlighted during Oscar Season.