JOHN FROM CINCINNATI
Transcription by Groggy
(Imperial Beach,
California, near the Mexican boarder.
Early morning. An SUV,
headlights still on, pulls up and parks.
The driver, Linc Stark, gets out of the SUV and makes his way down to a
deserted and secluded stretch of beach.
A lone surfer is on the water.
Linc watches him. A younger man
appears behind Linc, seemingly from nowhere.)
John: The end is near.
Linc: Amen, my brother.
(A
small, scattered group of Mexicans scurry by in the brush behind them.)
Those
illegals act like it’s just another day at the beach. You know Mitch Yost?
John:
Mitch Yost should get back in the
game.
Linc: Couple of fun ones, eh, Mitch?
John: You should get back in the game, Mitch Yost.
Mitch: (to John) You should mind your own business. (to Linc) Go fuck yourself. (Mitch keeps on walking by.)
Linc: (to John) In case you’re not crazy, I go back
20 years with this family. The deal
with the kid is in the works, so stay away.
Or whoever’s paying you better have you on a good health plan.
(Cut to a
different beach and pier. Cissy Yost is up on the pier, overlooking a much
busier beach. She watches a surfer headed for the water)
Cissy: (calling down) Sammy, Sammy! Tell Shaun he needs to stop by the shop.
Sammy: Okay.
Cissy: Don’t forget. Give
you a free bar of wax.
(Cissy
leaves. After her departure, an
attractive young blonde woman crosses the pier from the opposite side of the
pier. She assumes, roughly, Cissy’s
vacated vantage point, and looks out on the water. Quickly enough she finds her focus: Shaun Yost…surfing.)
(Cut back to the deserted beach, Linc has caught up with Mitch. They walk together.)
Linc: I got nothing to do with that space cadet back there. I would never disrespect your retirement.
Mitch: (having stepped on something) Godddamnit! A syringe.
Maybe it’s one of Butchie’s.
Linc: What’s happened with Butchie is one of the biggest regrets
of my life.
Mitch: Yeah, well, now he’s proven to the world he can fuck up just
fine without sponsorship.
Linc: Am I going to see you at Huntington this afternoon?
Mitch: Why would you see me at Huntington? Nobody’s seen me there in 20 years.
Linc: Your grandson’s breaking his cherry. I just assumed you knew.
Mitch: Well, I didn’t. And
if it’s for a competition, don’t assume you’re gonna see him, and for sure
don’t expect to get your fangs in his neck like you did in Butchie’s.
Linc: He sent this to me.
Mitch: (reads aloud) “Sponsor Me.” Fucking Butchie wants to get Shaun signed?
Linc: Shaun sent it.
Mitch: Jesus Christ! What?
Linc: He’s 13, Mitch.
Mitch: Yeah, you sign 8 year-olds.
Linc: Look, this is gonna happen.
He wants to get signed, and he’s the real deal. And he’s a Yost. Trust the devil you know, Mitch.
(Cut to
the Snug Harbor Motel. Meyer Dickstein and Ramon Gaviota exit the
office.)
Ramon: So fast, after nothing so long.
Dickstein: I know the WMD fiasco in Iraq is fresh in both our memories,
Ramon.
Ramon: There were none.
Dickstein: And I may be as wrong in my intelligence estimate as the CIA, but the man who just purchased this motel doesn’t strike me as the most pleasant person.
(A man’s
voice: “Motherfucker!” Butchie Yost’s
van has pulled into the Snug Harbor’s parking lot and approaches Dickstein and
Ramon.)
Ramon: Butchie probably better split.
Dickstein: Certainly he can’t stay on present terms.
Ramon: As a deadbeat?
Dickstein: Say he paid you $200.
Ramon: Like that’s gonna happen.
Dickstein: We can tell the new owner we just discovered Butchie
squatting.
Ramon: What about the six months worth of garbage in his room?
Dickstein: Butchie Yost revolutionized surfing, Ramon. He changed the entire idea of it.
Ramon: This place was supposed to stay vacant, and I think you’re a
little old for hero worship.
Butchie: (exiting van) Ladies.
Dickstein: Butchie, a moment.
Butchie: Was the brigade out today?
Dickstein: We were, yes. The
Association of Surfing Attorneys.
Ramon: Butchie, the motel just sold. It’s out of receivership.
Butchie: I have to take a horrendous dump, Ramon. And after that I want to hear every fucking
detail.
Dickstein: This is very important.
Ramon: Can I show you something?
Dickstein: I settled Yost’s injury claim with the city yesterday,
Ramon.
Ramon: When he passed out under the beach sweeper.
Dickstein: He got $2300.
Ramon: Yesterday.
Dickstein: If that’s already gone, I’m good for the $200.
(Dickstein
and Ramon are now standing before an enormous pile of junk.)
Ramon: I’m gonna get the truck.
You put these on (gives Dickstein a pair of gloves), and we’ll
neaten up for the new owner. We’ll do
this fast. I’ll be back.
(Cut to
Butchie in his room, we watch him preparing to shoot up.)
(Cut to
Mitch at the beach at the back of his station wagon, Mitch dumps a gallon of
water over his head. Then, he notices
he’s levitating about four inches off the ground. He looks down, then looks
around, puzzled)
(Cut to
John, off in the brush somewhere near the beach, hears a disembodied voice, and
looks up.)
Vietnam
Joe: Hey, frat
boy. Drove down to T.J. to see the
donkey show, did you? Some dickhead
spike your drink? (emerging from the
thick brush) 50 bucks, I’ll drop
you anywhere within Imperial Beach.
Turn out your pockets. Turn out
your pockets. (John
does as he’s told, and something falls to the ground. Vietnam Joe picks it up.) 50 on the
nose. Let’s go before the Migra jumps
our shit. (grabbing John’s hand,
leading him toward the truck) Goddamn taco benders just ran past me like I was Homeland
Security. Too goddamn ignorant to
realize who wants to help them.
John: Some things I know, and some things I don’t.
Vietnam
Joe:
Spare me the babe-in-the-woods routine. You just paid to see a donkey fuck a woman.
(Cut to
Butchie’s room. He’s on his cell
phone.)
Butchie: No, I’m disappointed, Freddie, out here in California. I’m out this $2300. I got beat on the buy. Freddie, I cannot make myself believe that
that gland case and his fucking ice-cream truck had the balls to fucking screw
me on an ounce without your fucking say-so.
(Outside,
Shaun Yost, with his surfboard under his arm, skateboards into the Snug Harbor
parking lot.)
Dickstein: (calling) Young Mr. Yost! (to Ramon) Butchie’s son. He
shreds. Butchie’s parents have
custody. Probation situation, I took
care of it.
(Shaun
knocks on Butchie’s door. “Goddamnit!”
from within.)
(Inside
Butchie’s room.)
Butchie: I’ll come back at you, Freddie. It’s not like I got too much downside. All right, and you better make it fucking right.
(Butchie
snaps off his cell. The knocking on the
door continues.)
Butchie: I’m not done with my dump yet, Ramon.
Shaun: (from outside) It’s me, Dad.
Butchie: (opening the door) Hey, Shaunie. How’s it going, buddy? Come on in.
Sorry about the fucking mess.
The grom that I paid to clean it up got hit by a fucking van.
Shaun: How long ago?
Butchie: Yeah…I gotta get a replacement, huh? What’s going on? How’s sixth grade?
Shaun: It was good.
Butchie: Yeah, you want something to drink? Tap water ain’t fatal.
Shaun: I’m supposed to surf at an event at Huntington this
afternoon.
Butchie:
(surprised) Your grandfather sign off on that?
Shaun: Gram did.
Butchie: That sounds more like it.
Shaun: Think you might want to go?
Butchie: No. Fuck. Not if you want them to let you on the
water. I’m fucking barred up there,
buddy.
Shaun: From watching too?
Butchie: What the fuck do I want to go up there for, Shaunie,
okay? Those things are fucking
bullshit.
Shaun: Okay.
Butchie: Not for you. You
know, okay, I mean, I don’t give a fuck if you want to.
Shaun: Okay.
Butchie: It’s not that I don’t give a fuck, okay? When did I ever tell you not to do something? It’s all I’m trying to say, okay?
Shaun: Okay.
Butchie: Everyone says you’re great.
You’ll probably fucking win the thing and get sponsored and all that
shit.
Shaun: Anyways…
Butchie:
Just don’t pull
your left nut out.
Shaun: (as he leaves) Like you did your last event?
Butchie: Yeah. It tends to
get you DQ-ed.
(Shaun
Yost’s “Sponsor Me” video plays. Mitch
and Cissy are watching it at the surf shop.)
Cissy: Butchie wasn’t that good when he was 13. Were you?
Mitch: Did you take that footage?
Cissy: Some. Some Shaunie
collected from his friends. He put it
together.
Mitch: But you sent it to Linc.
Cissy: I sent one to everyone Shaun thought might want to sponsor
him.
Mitch: Including the bastard that helped turn Butchie into the
ditch-sleeping doper shitbird he is today?
Cissy: Shaun doesn’t have to be Butchie.
Mitch: Yeah, but you’re still you, aren’t you, Cissy? You entered Shaun in the contest today.
Cissy: He entered. I signed
the forms as guardian.
Shaun: Hi, Gram, Gramps.
Mitch
and Cissy: Hey.
Shaun: Sammy said you wanted me to stop by?
Cissy: How’d that board feel?
Shaun: It was good.
Cissy: Not too stiff? We’re
worried about those rails.
Kai: Hey, Shaun.
Shaun: Hey, Kai.
Kai: (to Mitch and Cissy)
Morning.
Mitch: (to Shaun) Go in the back. (long
pause) Go in the back.
Kai: Come on, let’s go in the back, Shaun.
Shaun: I guess I’m supposed to be there by 11:00.
(Shaun
and Kai go in the back.)
Mitch: You are not taking him up to that contest today. And any permissions you’ve signed I’ll drive up there and rescind. I’ll rip up the waivers. I’ll bury any money-bitch-would-be sponsor
in a pit, starting with Linc-fucking-Stark.
What happened to Butchie is not happening to Shaun.
Cissy: I understand. The
Kahuna has spoken.
Mitch: And I got fucking cancer. Right here in my brain.
(Mitch
leaves. Shaun and Kai are playing
checkers in the back when Cissy joins them.)
Cissy: Get to Bill’s house, Shaunie. Tell Bill I hoped he would drive you to your event.
Shaun: Could you call him?
Cissy: You know how he is about the phone. Here’s your accident liability waiver. I already mailed in your entry and your
fee. Don’t show it to Bill until you
get to the event. Otherwise, he’ll be
worried about it all the way up. Show
it to him when you get to Huntington, when you’re walking to the registration
table. But then you watch him give it
to them.
Shaun: Okay, Gram.
Cissy: ‘Cause they have to get it from an adult.
Shaun: Okay.
Cissy: Then, you just put your jersey on, and you paddle out and
you kick some ass.
(In
Vietnam Joe’s truck, moving down the road.
John sticks his head out the window like a dog who loves the wind in his
face.)
Vietnam
Joe: You comfy-cozy sweat-pea? Slip you a mickey and then forget to roll
you--typical beaner behavior.
John: Some things I know, and some things I don’t.
Vietnam
Joe: Tell me something you know.
John: The end is near.
Vietnam
Joe: Huh! Feel that way half the time myself.
John: Mitch Yost should get back in the game.
Vietnam
Joe: I don’t know Mitch Yost.
John: I should have a good health plan, I see Mitch Yost again.
Vietnam
Joe: Butchie Yost I know.
Flops in that shithouse on 7th.
John: What do you want?
Vietnam
Joe: What do you mean?
John: Some things I know, and some things I don’t.
Vietnam
Joe: I’ll drop you at Butchie’s. He may know where Mitch is.
Get you your health coverage.
Then I’m gonna role a fuckin' fat one.
(Cut to
an interior, living room, Bill Jacks is standing in the middle of the room,
vacantly staring at his TV. Shaun
enters, letting himself in.)
Shaun: How’s it going, Bill?
Bill: How are you? They’re
running the Mexican wrestling. I’ll
tell you one thing, they’re overexposing these masked midgets.
Shaun: Grams asked me to ask you if you wouldn’t mind driving me
today.
Bill: No, no, no. Not at
all.
Shaun: Don’t tell Gramps about any of it, okay, Bill?
Bill: You know, my neck is killing me.
Shaun: Your fibromyalgia?
Bill: You making fun of me?
‘Cause that’s a written diagnosis by a VA physician.
(Shaun,
nosing around one of Bill’s birdcages, discovers a bird, motionless and on its
back.)
Shaun: What happened to Zippy?
(Bill
comes over.)
Bill: Oh, my God.
Shaun: Is Zippy dead?
Bill: It’s all right. (wiping
a tear from his eye) This
happens. This is something you learn to
accept.
Shaun: Zippy was a good bird.
Bill: (sobbing) That’s right. That’s correct. When you’re older, you’ll understand.
Shaun: Should we burry him?
(Bill
removes the lifeless bird from the cage.)
Bill: That’s not for you.
You’ll have more than one occasion later. I got Twinkies around.
You want a Twinkie?
Shaun: I can help, Bill.
Let me help.
Bill: You don’t hold onto a bird once it’s passed. This is something that you learn.
(Shaun
strokes Zippy. The bird squawks to
life, flutters up and away, then lands and perches on Bill‘s extended finger.)
Bill: Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
Shaun: He’s alive!
Bill: Well, this is…this is something. Zip, we thought you croaked.
Gimme a kiss.
(Bill
raises Zippy to his face, and Zippy gives him an affectionate peck.) Give the
kid a kiss too. As long as you’re being
stupid.
Shaun: Hey, Zippy!
Bill: I’ll tell ya, I don’t know anymore if I’m on foot or on
horseback, or if a bird’s alive or dead.
Shaun: He was dead, Bill.
Bill: Obviously, he wasn’t.
When you’re older, you’ll understand.
Shaun: I saw him.
Bill: I’m losing my train of thought lately. Everything else, you’ll understand more when
you’re fully grown.
Shaun: That is sick.
(Shaun
starts doing a head bob, imitating Zippy.)
Bill: What are you doing?
You want to get fibromyalgia?
Shaun: (still bobbing) It’s cool.
(Cut to
the surf shop.)
Kai: Christ, Moke ordered a fish. You kidding me? He’s
going to sink that friggin’ thing.
Cissy: Why does what happened to Butchie make it fucked up to help
Shaunie do what any 13 year-old would want to?
He fucking forbids me to let Shaunie compete.
Kai: I’m not Mitch’s wife, Cissy.
Cissy: All the time you spend with Shaun…you know Butchie better
than anybody.
Kai: Or Shaun’s guardian.
Or Butchie’s mother.
Cissy: And he tells me he’s got a brain tumor.
Kai: Mitch has got a brain tumor?
(A
strange look comes over Cissy’s face, as if a revelation is gestating.)
Cissy: (to herself) Wouldn’t put it past him either, the
fucking jerk.(Cissy
puts her jacket on.)
(Butchie’s
room. He’s jonesin‘. He has his phone to his ear and he hears,
“It beeped: leave me a message.”)
Butchie: Yeah, I know what to do at the beep. Here’s your fucking message, Freddie. In one more fucking hour, someone hasn’t
shown up to get me right, you get hit in Hawaii by a law enforcement tsunami,
and your ice-cream man goes over a cliff in his fucking truck.
(Outside,
in the Snug Harbor parking lot, the truck is fully loaded.)
Ramon: Looks like we got a full load. You’re really good at this.(Dickstein,
in the back of the pickup truck, jumps down and hands Ramon his gloves.)
Dickstein: I have office business, Ramon. Have to go home and wash up before I conduct it. The new owner takes possession at 3:00. Mr. Cunningham. I’ll be back then.
Ramon: Don’t forget. Bring
the $200 with you.
Dickstein: Here’s another one who has to change his ways.
Ramon: Vietnam Joe.
Dickstein: The Snug Harbor’s closed as a stop on his underground
railroad.
Ramon: That guy doesn’t fit Joe’s profile.
Vietnam
Joe:
The Three Stooges.
I could eat a bowl of soup off of either of your heads. Which room in this palace is Butchie Yost’s?
Ramon: If he was here, he’d be in F.
Vietnam
Joe: (turning to John) Okay, you go over there.
(showing John how to knock) You
knock on the door. Show me. Yeah.
You’re on your own.
(Vietnam
Joe takes the cap off John’s head as John gets out of the truck.)
Dickstein: Ramon wants to talk to you, Joe.
(Vietnam
Joe drives off.)
Dickstein: (pointing at John moving toward Butchie’s door) Try to keep that short.
(Butchie’s
room. Knocking.)
John: (from outside) What do you want, Butchie Yost? (Butchie
spies out the peephole and sees John.)
Butchie: (speaking through the door)
I want to
see some dope coming out of your pockets.
Or my $2300.
(John produces a wad of cash from his pocket.
Butchie opens the door, moves out quickly and looks suspiciously
around.)
Here I
am. Eyes to see the sunset loaded. And
just flew off the handle with your people.
What a fucking jerk. Let’s go
call the ice-cream man and tell him I’m sorry.
(Outside
Mitch’s Clubhouse in the Yost’s back yard.
Cissy approaches with determination.)
Cissy: I’m coming in, Mitch!
(ascending the outer stairs) The
Grand Poohbah’s Inner Sanctum! Holy
father, great Tao. Fucking Dalai Lama.
(She enters.)
Mitch: I’m hallucinating.
Cissy: You been getting high?
Mitch: No. It wasn’t a
hallucination. It’s not like acid.
Cissy: You just said you were hallucinating.
Mitch: I used the wrong word.
Cissy: So, what’s the right word?
Your sinuses are plugged? ‘Cause
that does point straight at brain cancer.
Mitch: In the lot, after I surfed, I…I was up in the air…is how it
felt.
Cissy: Half the time with ear infections, I get dizzy like
that. Go to see a doctor.
Mitch: If I’ve got a tumor, I don’t want their machines getting
ahold of me.
Cissy: Welcome to the rest of our fucking lives! You surf when no one can see you…me
especially. Rest of the day you’re in
your clubhouse. Next week or next year,
we’ll get the call: Butchie’s dead in
some fucking dumpster. But the breaking
news today: Shaun doesn’t get out
either. ‘Cause Big Mitch fucking
forbids it. Because 20 years ago his
knee got a boo-boo.
Mitch: A boo-boo…they nearly amputated.
Cissy: Suppose you do have a tumor. Suppose you’re fucking dying.
How are you gonna kill the time before you check out? What about the healing power of sex?
(Cut to Butchie’s
room.)
Butchie: Right. (closes
his cell phone) You give me $2300
and the ice-cream man says he doesn’t know you. Empty your pockets, bro, so we don’t start not getting
along. All right, show me something
with your name on it. (John pulls
out his pockets and produces a credit card.)
These
fucking platinum cards got that rocket fuel, don’t they, John? Vroom, vroom!
John:
Vroom!
Butchie: What were you up to, John, just before you came to see
me? Was there a little bit of (faux
toking) the wacky-tabacky involved?
(John imitates Butchie’s faux toke.)Does that ring a bell?
John: Does it ring a bell?
Butchie: Where I’m going, John, is are you fucked up at the present
moment? Speed, freon, tire sealer, the
little green chunks from the kitty litter?
John:
Doesn’t ring a bell.
Butchie: Who I am rings a bell, right, John? You know I am Butchie Yost.
John: Butchie Yost rings a bell!
Butchie: All right, John, we’ll work with what we got. Now my conclusion, not confusing myself with
Sherlock Holmes, is A: you’re a little shy; B: you just broke your piggy bank
or you have a few dollars in the family; and C: you’re here to surf with the
beast. (Butchie
points at a surfing poster of himself on the wall.)
John: I am here to surf with the beast!
Butchie: Butchie the Beast Yost--bringing him out of semi-retirement.
John: Bring Butchie out of semi-retirement.
Butchie: You fucking learn from the best, fuck the rest, and doing that costs top dollar!
John: Top dollar rings a bell.
Butchie: (leaning in close, almost whispering in John’s ear) It wouldn’t be the first time, John, that worried parents
were part of the story. How about
worried doctors?
John: Worried doctors aren’t part of the story.
Butchie: Or worried parents?
John: Worried parents don’t ring a bell, Butchie.
(Apparently
satisfied enough with John’s responses about parents and doctors, Butchie
resumes moving about the room.)
Butchie: Of course, parts of my story you don’t know either,
John. I mean, I’m no open book to
you. Whatever bullshit you read in
those magazines. Here’s what we’re
gonna do. We’re gonna take each other
at face value, John, and get to know each other better as we go along. Now, money’s gonna have to change hands
between us, John. You’re gonna be
spending some of that cash. You got
expenses, fees. I need to know that
you’re down for that.
John: I’m down for that.
Butchie: Let me hear it John, how big you’re fucking down for it.
John: I hear it big, Butchie.
Butchie: John and his cash and his plastic are down with Butchie the
Beast!
John: I’m down! (John hits his knees, drops to all fours and
bows his head.)
Butchie: Don’t do that, John.
Don’t--(Butchie lowers himself to his knees.)
Okay, let’s
pick up our credit card. And let’s be
adult around our possessions.
(Cut to
Mitch’s Clubhouse. Cissy and Mitch are
in bed together.)
Mitch: Was Shaun really disappointed when you told him he couldn’t
go?
Cissy: He never shows what he’s feeling.
Mitch: Yeah, he plays it pretty close to the vest. I think that’s good. Maybe we should get a camera. Just to show it’s not…if I feel it happening
again…going up in the air.
Cissy: I get it. I’ll pick
you one up at Jenco.
(Mitch
reaches over to touch Cissy, but she rolls away and gets out of bed. Mitch sits up himself, then dangles his legs
over the edge of the bed, letting his feet hover inches above the floor.)
(Cut to
the surf shop. John and Butchie enter.)
Butchie: I’ hope you’re doodling, ‘cause I know you can’t write.
Kai: Urgent care’s down the street.
Butchie: Say hi to John, Kai.
Kai: Hi, John.
John: Hi, Kai.
Butchie: My student and main man.
We want an outfit nose to tail. (Butchie
slaps the platinum card on the counter.) Full-goddamn-pop
of every wetsuit and surfboard we fucking-A decide to buy, right, John?
John: Fucking-A, right!
Butchie: Full fucking quiver.
Special attention to the board shaped by the little lady here, meaning
she will benefit from that rocket propellant in your fucking platinum card.
Kai: Maybe he just wants to start with one.
Butchie: Hey, check out those boards, John. Examine ‘em closely while Kai and I have a talk. Every surfer
needs a backup. Dos minimum.
John: Dos minimum.
Butchie: Wouldn’t this be a day to write home about if I wasn’t
homeless and disowned? I finally get
that fucking injury settlement, and I fucking invest in a lid, and that fucking Samoan sells me
quinine.
Kai: Too bad you don’t have malaria.
Butchie: What the fuck is that suppose to mean?
Kai: Where did you come up with him?
Butchie: He came up with me.
He knocked on my fucking door.
John Monad.
Kai: Sounds French.
(John is
running his finger along the edges of surfboards and sneaking peeks at Kai.)
Butchie: What, the Dragon Lady call in sick? ‘Cause she isn’t. She’s taking Shaunie to Huntington.
Kai: Is that right?
Butchie: Or maybe you already knew.
Kai: Shaun wanted to enter, Butchie. He’s been working on a “Sponsor Me” video for months.
Butchie: Why don’t you just enter him in a jerk-off competition,
‘cause he’s been working his Johnson in the bathroom?
Kai: I didn’t enter him.
Butchie: Well, you didn’t tell me when I walked in here.
Kai: It’s your family.
Butchie: She signs your paycheck.
Kai: You haven’t seen Shaun in six months, Butchie.
Butchie: You have no fucking clue, Kai, how much time we spend together.
Kai: Yeah, right. He’s a
liar.
Butchie: Hey, fuck you, Kai!
I try to throw you some fucking business, and you put my balls in a vice?
Kai: You know, I don’t need you to throw me any business.
Butchie: Okay, sorry to fucking bother you. Give my love to my mom.
Come on, John.
John: Bye, Kai. (Butchie leads John out by the hand. Kai waves at John.)
(Outside
the surf shop as John and Butchie exit.)
Butchie: God, who does she think she fucking is?
John: She’s Kai, Butchie.
Butchie: I signed over custody so I wouldn’t louse that kid up. Fucking had to, to get fucking
probation. Where is my fucking phone?
John: Some things I know, and some things I don’t.
Butchie: I don’t suppose you have a phone, John, do you?
John:
Some things I know, and some things I don’t.
Butchie: Jesus Fucking Christ!
You know, every time you wanna say, “Some things I know, and some things I don’t,”
just say, “I don’t know, Butchie, “ instead.
John: I don’t know, Butchie, instead.
(Butchie
starts patting John down, searching for a phone. Doesn‘t take him long to find one.)
Butchie: (punching numbers into the phone) I
wanna see where my old fucking man is in all this shit. Where’s Mitch, the Holy Man Yost?
John: I like Kai.
Butchie: Yeah, you would, John.
I’m beginning to see that about you.
You probably can bone her if you try hard enough.
John: I’ll bone her.
Butchie: Yeah. Might want to
have to bust her jaw first so she’d shut the fuck up.
(Mitch picks up the phone in his Clubhouse.)
Mitch: Hello.
Butchie:
Congratulations on
being a gutless fucking cunt.
Mitch: What the fuck is that suppose to mean?
Butchie: It means you’re a selfish fucking cocksucker, that’s
what! What, you’re tired of no one
asking you, so you go ahead and okay for him?
Mitch: Maybe you wanna tell me what the fuck you’re talking about.
Butchie:
Shaun in
Huntington.
Mitch: He’s not going.
Butchie: He’s there then with you?
What’s that, Dad, I can’t hear?
Mitch: Well, I’ve forbidden it.
Your mother will see that he doesn’t go.
Butchie: Mother? Did you say,
mother will see? That’s a good one,
Pop. ’Cause I got news for you. Mother will see to it that he does go. And then you won’t have a fucking clue until
the deal is done. But that’s gonna be
okay with you, isn’t it? Mother does
the dirty spadework, while fucking Shaun wins a few dirty competitions. And more dirty money starts flowing into
Mitch’s fucking ashram.
Mitch: Yeah, don’t forget the dirty needles, Butchie. How about that other dirty business you’re
not in? Of being a fucking father to
your son. So your mother and I had to
wind up taking legal custody. I oughta
drive down to that shitbox you live in and kick your fucking ass!
Butchie: You could fucking try, Dad.
Mitch: I’m on my way, Son.
Butchie: Don’t forget to lube up your bone-on-bone knee, you fucking
goat!
Mitch:
Don’t forget to shoot up some courage.
Butchie: Fuck you! (Hangs up phone.) What a dick! I think he’s actually gonna come. Goddamn. I gotta get high. I gotta get good and fucking high. So I can kick that cocksucker’s fucking ass.
John: Fucking high, I gotta get high. I gotta get high, man. (Butchie takes John by the hand and begins leading him to the van.)
Butchie:
Are you
from someplace cold, John?
John: I don’t know, Butchie, instead.
Butchie: I bet if you’re from someplace cold, John, that your mom
clipped your mittens to your fucking coat. (Butchie gets John in the van.) You
want to meet a happy family, watch Saturday morning cartoons, John.
Meet the fucking Jetsons!
John: Meet the fucking Jetsons!
Butchie: (getting behind the wheel)
Hey, you
wanna see my old man get his ass kicked?
Just take a ride with me, pal.
(Cut to Jenco,
a huge all-purpose store. Cissy pushes
her cart along. She stops to ask
assistance from a stock boy who is stacking a display of toilet paper.)
Cissy: I’m looking for an instamatic.
Gary: Would you consider a diabetic, if hardworking and handsome?
Cissy: An instamatic camera, (looking at his nametag) Gary.
Gary: We don’t have them.
Cissy: You don’t?
Gary: No. No instamatics. I’m fully acquainted with our inventory,
Ma’am. We don’t. We no longer carry instamatics. We have digital cameras , and we have
disposables. And those are all in aisle
74.
(Cissy
takes a few swipes at Gary’s meticulously stacked toilet paper display. Rolls of toilet paper fly and fall to the
floor.)
Gary: Okay, those nearly hit me.
Cissy: No, those nearly didn’t.
(Cut to Bill
Jacks and Shaun in Bill's truck. They are in heavy traffic.
Light turns green and Bill doesn’t move. A horn honks.)
Bill: Up your ass! Up your
nose with a rubber hose. (Another horn honking.) Yeah, Fuck you. (to Shaun) Excuse me, I lost my temper.
(At
Jenco. Cissy’s in the checkout
line. Gary and somebody from Security
approach.)
Security: Step out of the line please, Ma’am.
Cissy: Why?
Security: Please, step out of the line.
Cissy: You fucking idiot with your tin badge and your stupid
goatee.
Security: (Speaking into radio)
427.
Cissy: Oh, we’re up to a 427 now?
You going for the mace and tasers?
Security: Please step out to the line.
Gary: (to gathering customers) These checkout lines are closed, folks. They’ll help you over here. Thanks a lot.
Cissy: This guy made a half-assed pass at me.
Gary: I’m a diabetic. I
did no such thing.
Security: Come with me, Ma’am. (Security tries to grab Cissy’s arm,
but she shakes free.)
Cissy: Just get your hands off me.
Security: Ma’am, Ma’am.
Cissy: Hey, get your hands off me!
Security: Ma’am, please.
(Cut to Snug
Harbor parking lot, a car is pulling in)
Ramon: Maybe we should have had one of those flower necklaces for
him.
Dickstein: It’s called a lei. It may come to that.