willywonka3435 (willywonka3435) wrote,
willywonka3435
willywonka3435

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A Script (Of Sorts):

[It’s dark outside, long after working hours are over. We see a bus stop sign—beneath the sign is a bench. WILSON sits on the bench; obviously, he’s waiting for the bus. The wind has picked up, and it’s tousling WILSON’S hair, ruffling the legs of his slacks. He looks a little cold and a lot forlorn, and he’s staring out into the street. Everything’s silent, and there’s no traffic. No one’s around.

For a few minutes, WILSON is motionless, a picturesque statue—The Thinker, Oncologist Style. Then—]

WILSON: [Sighs.]

[Sound of an engine in the distance. HOUSE pulls up; he’s riding his motorbike. HOUSE stops at the light, pauses, looks over at WILSON. WILSON stares at HOUSE and doesn’t move. The light changes. HOUSE drives off without looking back.]

WILSON: [To himself.] Guess that’s that.

[Silence for awhile longer. Ten minutes later, the bus pulls up. WILSON stands and fishes out his wallet, searching for bus fare. He finds it and begins to climb inside.]

BUS DRIVER: Not taking any more passengers tonight. Didn’t you see the sign?

[WILSON steps back and looks up at the sign atop the bus. It says, “Out of Order.”]

WILSON: Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.

BUS DRIVER: No problem. Have a good evening.

WILSON: You know when the next bus will come by here?

BUS DRIVER: Probably about half an hour.

WILSON: Thanks.

[BUS DRIVER drives off. The sign is still winking golden—out of order. Probably the man’s going home, maybe to the arms of his wife, with a hot meal on the table and a fire in the family room. This reminds WILSON that he has to find something to eat for dinner. WILSON sits down on the bench again. All is silent. Then there’s the sound of an engine. It’s a car engine this time.

HOUSE pulls up again. He’s behind the wheel of a red car. He rolls down the window and looks out. WILSON looks at him.]

HOUSE: Well?

WILSON: [Tiredly.] Well what, House?

[Something clicks. It’s the lock on the passenger-side door.]

WILSON: I can’t read minds, House. What do you want now?

HOUSE: [Grudgingly.] Wait’s gonna be another thirty minutes.

WILSON: You don’t ride the bus—

HOUSE: No, but—unlike some people—I’m intelligent enough to check the schedule.

WILSON: So—

HOUSE: You getting in or not?

[Silence. WILSON contemplates this. It’s not much, but—coming from HOUSE—it’s a hell of a lot. And does he really have another choice? With HOUSE, does he ever really have another choice? Then again, would he want another choice?]

WILSON: [Standing up, lifting his briefcase.] I’m getting in.

[WILSON pulls open the door and slides inside. There’s something on the seat. He lifts it and nearly laughs.]

WILSON: You should take better care of your Ip-Od. Very valuable device.

HOUSE: [Hesitantly—he doesn’t want to say this.] You know—about—

WILSON: Don’t worry about it.

HOUSE: I wouldn’t.

WILSON: I know.

[Pause.] HOUSE: It’s pretty late.

WILSON: Planning on driving anywhere any time this century?

HOUSE: Yeah.

[HOUSE puts the car in gear and presses the gas. They drive off.]

[Fade.]

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