Giving Away Minnesota

After the telepathic drive Finkie was convinced that Babs, his mother's pet budgie was taking orders from Ayatollah Khomeini. During a February snowstorm, Finkie tossed Babs out the window, so that it could fly to Iran and overthrow the Ayatollah.

Then there was the fruit; the talking pears, the farting nectarines, the giggling grapes. After that Finkie got into real estate. He gave Florida to Uncle Hershie, Texas to his mother's best friend, Selma Levine, and South Dakota to Harry, which Harry took as a slight. He would have preferred California or New York.

That was it. Next stop: the psychiatric ward at the Mount Sinai Hospital. And although Harry could not accept it, did not believe it, (feared losing his own mind as well), Finkie had gone skitz. Bye bye never-ending childhood, adios the sweet long nights of endless summer, au revoir audacious shared dreams never to come to pass. Welcome to the real world, to the call of the wild that knows no favors, gives no second chances, the inevitable laws of nature that cull the herd.

At least Harry was good at living in denial. He was not really selling belts, only doing it until he made it big. How that would happen however, was still a mystery. He would get his girl, maybe not by stalking her, or by sitting all night in his car parked in front of her house, waiting for the douche bag in the Porsche to leave, but somehow Harry would get his girl. And he'd never be without his best friend, the stories would never stop, the laughs would never fade away. He'd wake up tomorrow and Finkie would snap out of it. They'd finish the script, get an agent and staff writing jobs on Feldman. Maybe even befriend Gary? It could happen. Together, they'd conquer the world.

So visiting Finkie at the psychiatric ward in the Mount Sinai Hospital wasn't real. It was a mistake, an aberration, just another story .

"I'll be out of here in a few days, Harry. It's just a chemical imbalance. A few meds and I'll be fine. In a couple of months we'll be in LA."

"If you say so, Finkie."

"I'm telling you, Harry."

A small group of skittish patients gingerly gathered around Finkie, now the undisputed Big Man On the Ward. But Finkie didn't want any fans and shooed them away like stray cats.

"Get outta here! You're all crazy!" Finkie yelled. Then he laughed maniacally. "They're all crazy, Harry, all nuts."

The startled patients scurried away in all directions. Myron the public masturbator wet his pants. Beth the drooling redhead hid under the coffee table and Jamie, the twitching mathematical savant, bolted towards the window, and looked out longingly at the ledge.

"Jump, jump!" Finkie urged. He howled like a madman, then abruptly stopped when he caught the look of horror on Harry's face. "Relax, Harry. The windows are bolted shut."

" ..." Harry gasped.

"See that Harry? I'm not crazy like these whack-jobs."

Maybe. Hopefully. Harry sighed with relief.

Finkie put his ear against his watch. "The Prime Minister just told me he'll get me out by supper." He broke out in laughter. "All I had to do was give him Minnesota."

Driving Mr. Crazy

"Watch this," Finkie said while driving home from the Lizard's. "I can control my car telepathically."

"Yeah, right," Harry said. Finkie said a lot of stupid shit.

But this time he meant it. Finkie took his foot off the gas pedal and let the car cruise down Sherbrooke Street, through two stop signs and a red light. Harry freaked, then fought unsuccessfully for control of the steering wheel and gas pedal. The car crashed uneventfully into a soft snowbank.

No one was hurt. Lucky it was one in the morning on a Monday. Unlucky there were red flashing lights behind. A cop caught it all. A six hundred and fifty dollar ticket for burning the stops and the lights and enough demerit points for Finkie to get his license suspended for six months.

A little later:

Harry drove the car home, very slowly and carefully. Finkie wouldn't shut up.

"It's your fault, Harry! You're the dark prince, you willed this to happen!"

"Fucking Finkie man, get a grip on yourself. I don't think you're okay."

"You're the fucking dark prince, Harry Starr! They're broadcasting it on the radio now! Can't you hear it?!" This time Finkie wasn't trying to be funny.

Then Harry realized that there was no point in carrying on this conversation. Something was wrong with Funkie. Please God, Harry thought, don't let him be sick.

Goin' Down, Down, Down

The script was gathering dust. Finkie, who wasn't getting any video jobs, was back working in the shipping department at Uncle Hershie's boot factory. He also lost his motivation to push the project forward. Meanwhile Harry was mired in a perpetual state of inertia. Burnt out from the road, too lovesick to care about writing, avoiding Pauline and resenting Alvy, he hunkered down in his basement lair, fondling his gun, playing Dylan records and dreaming of everything he wasn't doing, shouldn't been doing and couldn't be doing.

But Finkie man, Finkie was going down fast. A couple of imbroglios at Uncle Hershie's set him down the path of self destruction:

Incident 1 - Hershie's Christmas Party

Every year Hershie threw his famous Christmas party for the guys at work. Strippers, booze, coke - fun and games for all. That year Hershie's party entertainment featured some homegrown talent. Hershie climbed on stage holding up a crisp $1000 bill.

"A gee note to anyone here to anyone who gets up on stage and balls the stripper," he announced.

The stripper turned her sweet bubble butt towards the audience, bent down holding her ankles and jiggled and gyrated.

The men cheered her on, but there were no takers to join her on stage.

"What's the matter," Hershie taunted. "No real men around here?"

Finkie sprung to life. "I'll do it," he selflessly volunteered and bounded up on stage. A thousands bucks and a chance to do a wicked hot stripper. A no-brainer. Okay, so the guys saw you with a hard on, big deal. Did it bother Long John Holmes or Ron "The Hedgehog" Jeremy?

Of course they had no problem performing live on cue.

But Finkie did, his lever wouldn't rise. O the shame, O the shame of it all! And he didn't even get the thousand bucks.


Incident 2 - In the Alley

Finkie had taken to slipping out to the back alley during break-time to smoke a joint. One day a trashy Carol Burnett look-alike saw Finkie smoking the joint and approached him.

Hot tramp, I love you so.

She smacked her glossy lips and asked, "Can I have a smoke, baby?" Finkie held out the joint and offered it to her, but she shook her head.

"Not that kind of a smoke, baby," and then tugged at Finkie's crotch which this time, had no trouble pointing to the seraphim above.

He laughed nervously and said, "That's the type of firm handshake that could get you a job."

"How about a job for you? One that starts with a blow," she said, then puckered her lips.

It didn't take the friendly gal too long to get Finkie off.

"Now your turn," she said while wiggling out of her tight skirt.

But she was a he and Finkie went running wee wee wee all the way home.

                                               ****

Then something in Finkie just snapped, as if he checked out of his body and into another zone. He quit working for Uncle Hershie and dropped his video business. And writing, forget about writing, forget about LA, all Finkie wanted to do was smoke weed. He dropped his trendy, arty friends and started hanging out with the dope-dealing duo, Lenny the Lizard and Cross-Eyed Fred.

"They're good guys, Harry. You should meet them."

Which Harry did, but only for the story. With those names, how could you go won? So he drove with Finkie to their genteel middle class brownstone duplex in midtown near the train tracks. He warned Harry that Lenny the Lizard and Cross-Eyed Fred were picky about their clientele, most of whom were rich and kikey, jocked-out, Jewish porn-freaks who barely made it out of high school, and thought that Las Vegas was the real promised land, and that everyone else on Earth outside their closed circles of privilege, were chattel.

Finkie gave the secret knock at the door, rapping to the chorus of Beethoven's Fifth. Da da da da, da da da da, which was rather appropos for two men of culture. Harry tingled with anticipation and fear. Sleazy situations scared the shit out of him. Harry imagined his obit:

Harry Starr, 25, suddenly, caught in the crossfire while buying hash chez Lenny the Lizard and Cross-Eyed Fred. Two Hells Angels enforcers stormed into the drug den and sprayed those present with gunfire, signalling the beginning of a turf war.

Cross-Eyed Fred answered the door, each of his chameleon eyes independently sizing up Harry and Finkie. He did not appear pleased or particularly welcoming.

"Finkie man, you know that you just can't bring along anybody new like this. First we need references."

"What references Fred? This is my best friend and he's a drug addict. What else do you need to know?"

That Finkie was full of shit? It was true that lately Harry was on a binge, but he certainly wasn't an addict. He was way too cheap to ever let that happen.

Cross-Eyed Fred looked over Harry and nodded. "Yeah, okay, he looks burn-out. Come in," he shrugged.

Cross-Eyed Fred led them through a purple haze of smoke and into a clean and well-lit kitchen. Lenny the Lizard was rolling a joint.

"Gentlemen," he said, while licking the rolling paper to finish the joint. "Care to partake in my herbal remedy?"

Harry was impressed by the Lizard's eloquence, but at the same time was grossed out with his awful case of facial psoriasis. What if a flake fluttered into the joint? Harry thought about passing on the joint, but then again, a free toke was a free toke.

When the Lizard licked the joint, Harry's throat constricted. Gefilte fish did the same thing to him. If he was fool enough to partake in that joint, then he deserved to die. Harry thought about his obit:

Harry Starr, 25, after a lengthy illness, no courageous battle, without dignity or any sechel, metamorphasized into a pile of psoriasis flakes. Serves him right for following Finkie.

Finkie passed the burning joint to Harry. Well, it was free, so Harry graciously accepted the peace offering and took a deep hall. Oh baby, oh baby, it was potent.

"I haven't tasted stuff like this since the old One-Ball Spiegel days," Harry said.

One-Ball Speigel, one of the Flunkers, was one of the St. Antoine neighborhood dealers.

"Oh yes, One-Ball," the Lizard said. "I remember him well. He used to buy from us, ergo, the same taste of product."

Cross-Eyed Fred took a couple of tokes and then walked over to his cello propped up against the wall in the corner of the kitchen. He clutched the neck of the instrument sat down and began to play Bach's Cello Suite #1.

"You know how Speigel lost his ball?" Finkie asked kind of rhetorically.

Who in St. Antoine didn't know that story?

One-Ball, who was just plain Speigel before the incident, was playing frisbee stoned and nude in Sunnydale Park, late that hot sultry August night. An errant toss sailed over his head and into the Shapiro backyard which bordered the park. Speigel, a former track star at Sir Robert Borden High, hopped the fence to recover the frisbee.

On the other side of the fence Nipsy stood guard, the Shapiro family's fiercely territorial Welsh corgi and at twelve inches high, the shortest graduate ever of Willy Kaiser's Shutzhund Training program. That dog had been waiting all its life for that moment: A UFO landing on the doorstep of his doghouse, a clumsy intruder and a couple of dangling balls.

Grrrrrrr...

Yap-yap-yap!!!

Jump-jump-jump!

Bite-bite-bite.

Twist, rock and roll.

Chomp-chomp-chomp.

Gulp.

Paw lickin' good.

Then Nipsy took a leak.

And da da da da, dadadada, the creation of a new Sr. Antoine legend:

One-Ball Speigel.

"The moral of the story dear friends, is never play frisbee au natural and buzzed," the Lizard said.

"And at the end of that school year Prinicpal DeWolfe flunks him! Like how could he expect Speigel to get through the year after losing his favorite ball? He should've cut him some slack, " Finkie put out there for discussion.

"It is indeed, a cruel cruel world, my friend. One-Ball told me that after that incident. he took up kung fu because he wanted to kill the world and in a way, he did," the Lizard said.

Harry sat at the edge of his chair amidst the purple haze, taking it all in. Cross-Eyed Fred was still playing Bach on the cello.

"You mean he really--? Is that story true?" Finkie asked.

"I'm afraid it is. In fact it happened the same night he came by my place to buy some supplies. You know, he confessed to me soon after it happened," the Lizard said.

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, finally opening his mouth after sitting there like a dope-smoking statue.

"I shouldn't repeat it, but it doesn't really matter anymore," the Lizard said. "That night, One-Ball smoked a joint of Thai sticks here and started going nuts with his new numchuck. He almost killed Fred, so I kicked him out of the house and banned him from ever setting foot here again. So he's pissed at the world, goes downtown, spends a few hours at a strip joint, smokes more Thai sticks and rolls into his house at like three in the morning. Meanwhile his mother's worried sick, alone, waiting up for him. Remember his father took off to Florida with their Fillipino maid years before. So One-Ball is blitzed out of his mind, reeking of Thai sticks and then his mother starts yelling at him. 'Why are you taking drugs? Why are you doing this to me?" et cetera, et cetera. He just wants her to shut up, he can't take the yelling."

"Then something inside him snaps. One-Ball whips out his numchucks from his coat and fucking whacks his mother over the head, killing her instantaneously. He's freaked out, didn't mean it, but knows one thing: that he doesn't want to go to prison for life. His mother had warned him before to stop with the drugs before he ends up in jail with all the "scumbags." So even though One-Ball just killed her, he rationalizes that his mother, rest her soul, would do anything to keep him out of jail, so he gets the idea to fake her suicide."

"One-Ball actually ties a scarf around her neck and hangs her from the chandelier. Then he realizes that she's got this numchuck wound across the head, which would do him in. And then to his good fortune, if that's what you want to call it, the scarf rips and his mother's body goes crashing to the floor, ultimately decapitating the head from the body, but saving his ass. One-Ball then leaves the scene of the crime, drives back to my place and asks me if he can crash here for the night claiming that he got locked out. He goes home the next morning with his alibi, calls the cops and again to his good fortune, if that's what you want to call it, the cops rule the death a suicide and close the case. A few days later, he tells me the real story."

"And you never told the cops the truth?" Harry asked.

"What for? To make a tragic story worse? I figured his punishment was to live...at least for the short while he had left..."

"Oh right," Finkie said. "There was that kung fu demonstration at the St. ANtoine Mall."

"Right," the Lizard confirmed. "With his mother's inheritance, One-Ball opened up a martial arts studio and to attract new students, he'd do these road shows where he'd crack bricks with his head. He was doing one of those demonstrations at the St. Antoine Mall during an Israeli Independence Day celebration, but this time it didn't work out so well."

"Standing in the front row of the crowd watching the demonstration was Borden High's Principal DeWolfe, the same heartless prick who flunked him out. One-Ball spotted him just before he was about to break the concrete brick with his head and lost his concentration. When he tried to break the brick, his head cracked like an egg. And all the hospital's nurses and all the hospital's doctors couldn't put One-Ball back together again."

"Oh man, that's all so sad," Harry said and vowed from that day on, never to do drugs again. And with the Fate of the Flunkers now looming large, Harry understood that it was time to crawl out of his basement existence.

What-the-Fuckville

Life on road; the two-bit towns where there's no one to impress, where there's only Joes and Marys, where they eat mean sandwiches with two slices of luncheon meat-something, not more, on buttered white bread and wash it down with tubs of Pepsi. Where the branded fast food joints serve up the best meal in town, the safest one for sure. Where downtown is the gas station slash convenience store that carries a better selection of beef jerky than fruits and vegetables. Where there's always a village idiot out there counting cars with a clicker. A town where there's some poor slob with toffee-colored teeth who won a big lottery, but five years later ended broke and dead, and not necessarily in that order. Stuck in third world town in a first world country, sitting alone in a tired booth in a drab diner where the radio is droning sorry-ass Kickin'  Don Castle songs. Where the broken-down hoser nursing a lukewarm coffee is reading the back of the ketchup label because there's nothing better to read, and if there was, he wouldn't get it. A diner in a town where it's okay to smoke, where the grey-skinned waitress who's worked there twenty-seven years and counting looks like she could drop dead at any minute, and will actually get a stroke and collapse on the floor next Wednesday on Meatloaf Special night while the Leafs are being broadcast on the on the CBC (and losing of course). A place, a shit-hole, 123 Anystreet, Anytown. Exactly where Harry wanted to be.

"A pack of green Export A's," Harry said to the middle eastern-looking guy with the oblong forehead standing behind the counter at Samy's Diner. He had to be that Samy with the one M, Harry figured. Another souk merchant who fled Medievaland with fifty bucks in cigar tube stuck up his ass. Another refugee with a horror story resilient enough to eat shit for a few years and then find a way to buy the Main Street diner. Happy to harvest pocket change from the local yokels.

"Three forty-five," Samy said, the R's rolling off the tip of his tongue like verbal marbles.

"Of course," Harry loved those rolling R's and hoped for more, "you could buy a carton for twenty four dollars." More rolling R's, Harry could listen to those sounds all night.

"I'll take one," not that Harry really smoked, but it seemed right, there in What-the-Fuckville, Ontario.

"And what about a gun, my friend? I've got a 22 caliber for a hundred and twenty five dollars."

"What do I look like? A bank-robber?"

"Sorry, my friend, " which is what souk merchant guys say a lot where selling is synonymous with befriending, "owning a gun around here is quite common."

And terrifying and thrilling. It was inconceivable for Harry that he'd ever own a gun. Then again, his father had a Daisy BB rifle which he used to shoot the pigeons roosting on their roof at home. That was pretty fucked up too, even more so because he kept it under his bed and let Harry and his friends take shots. After a hit, Martha, their yellow lab retrieve the carcasses from the garden amid the pansies and petunias. So this being What-the-Fuckville, Harry said, "What the fuck, let's take a look."

"Follow me, my friend," Samy said while leading Harry into the back-store. Samy pulled a carton of cigarettes off the shelf and the gun from a drawer. He passed it to Harry, "don't worry, it's not loaded."

Harry still worried that it would go off as he held it in his trembling hand. A real weapon in the hand of a flunker was dangerous any way you sliced it. A gun killed Kenny Frick, the flunker who got caught breaking and entering into Principal Resnick's house after taking a dump on the desk in the study. The article in the Gazette flashed through Harry's head, he could practically read it:

Bread-knife Burglar Shot Dead

    A defiant burglar, armed with a knife was fatally shot yesterday after taunting a city policeman to “shoot me if you can.” He is believed to be responsible for a string of burglaries in Cote St. Luc.

       Kenneth Frick, 21, was an ex-convict who was released from prison on parole Nov.2 after serving two years for armed robbery. He died in the Mount Sinai of a bullet wound in the left side.

            Two Montreal Urban Community (MUC) policemen fired a total of four shots at the burglar as he fled after jumping to the ground from a rear window of a house at 5428 Mackenzie Avenue in St. Antoine shortly after midnight.

     Constable Luc Marois said that Frick “was armed with a bread knife that his mother had recently given him as a gift, when he jumped from the window and ignored a police order to stop.”

    Marois said a policeman outside the house, standing near the window, saw that the burglar “had a shiny object in his hand” when he emerged “and thought it was a gun.”

    The officer shouted: “Police. Stop or I’ll shoot,” Marois said.

    The man ignored his order to stop and shouted back “shoot me if you can” as he fled.

    “The officer fired once as the man ran off,” Marois said.

    As the shot was fired, the policeman’s partner, who had entered the house, appeared at the window.

    “He saw the man running away and fired one shot in his direction from the window,” said Marois.

     “The officer outside thought the fleeing man had fired at him, so he fired two more shots in the man’s direction.”

    An autopsy indicated that Frick had died of a single bullet wound in the left side.

    After the incident, police found a plastic bag containing stolen jewelry, a diploma, and a bread knife, in the yard behind the house. A human feces, alleged to be Frick's, was also found on a desk in the study of the house.

    Frick wasn’t carrying any identification papers, but was subsequently identified by the owner of the house, Saul Resnick, Frick’s former elementary school principal.

    An investigation of the fatal shooting is being conducted by the MUC police homicide squad, Marois said.

    When the homicide investigation is completed a report will be submitted to Montreal’s chief coroner, Guy Cauchon, who is expected to hold an inquest.

Was this one of those fateful moments? A gun and a klutz like Harry spelled disaster. But this town was--

"I'll take it, but no ammo." That would be okay. Harry couldn't wait to be alone with the gun. Why? -- he hadn't a clue. Maybe it was just his fate? After all, this was What-the-Fuckville.

Travelin' Man

After the wedding Harry brooded for weeks. He didn't work on the script, he barely ate, he wasn't there. Instead he played Bob Dylan and hit the road. Leaving the unwelcoming Quebec behind. Escaping into freedom. Living the moment. Taking it all in.

He packed his tattered copies of On the Road, Tropic of Cancer, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, a bag of weed, a portable typewriter and a harmonica he couldn't play. A bohemian in his own mind, ersatz but fortunately self delusional, a suitcase of belt samples instead of a guitar, cheesy restaurants instead of beat coffee houses, Hockey Night in Canada instead of Ginsberg reading Howl. Blood on the Tracks in the cassette deck.

Becoming one with rural Canada, the rolling hills and valleys, the farms, the trees, the lakes and rivers, the seemingly idyllic small towns. Cornwall, Brockville, Perth. Embracing real Canada, the country he loved. People without guile or pretense. Driving the Trans Canada Highway into the sunset. Wanderlust coursing through his veins, traveling from town to town, vowing to never settle down, never to go back home, to never look back.

And almost a poet.

Tangled Up in Two

Early one mornin' the snow was blowin'
I was layin' in bed
Wondrin' if it really happened
Whether it was all in my head
The ruse was stupid I knew it was
It didn't make no sense
A tale of lies, a plan of fools
Too late to repent
And I'm still sellin' strips of leather
Snow fallin' on my boots
Heading out to east Ontario
Dreamin' of the girl I never knew
Tangled up in two.

She was a waitress when we first met
I played a poor Don Juan
Lightening strikes but once my friend
And burns what it hits upon
Drove that day as far as I could
Till I ran out of gas
Called her up from a Husky station
Sadly all things come to pass
Before she banged down the phone
Thought I heard her say to me,
"we'll meet again someday when
you are true,"
Tangled up in two.

Scenes from: An Affair to Forget

FADE IN:

INT. HARRY'S CAR – NIGHT

Pauline examines with disgust the dusty plebeian interior of Harry’s car. Newspapers, magazines, books, cassettes and cassette cases are strewn about.

CLOSE UP OF Pauline rolling her eyes.

       PAULINE

  (laughing)

How could you drive around 

in this shit-box?

       HARRY

What do you care?

       PAULINE

I have an image to maintain.

The car stops at a red light. A prototypical DOUCHE-BAG in a Porsche pulls up beside them and stares.

Harry opens Pauline’s window and points to her.

       HARRY

  (to the Douche-Bag in the Porsche)

Pauline Eduardo!

The light turns green. The Porsche Douche-Bag guy flips Harry the finger, then peels off leaving behind a wake of dust.

SFX: SQUEALING TIRES.

Pauline coughs.

Pauline rolls up her window so that more dust won’t get in. She pulls out a Kleenex from her purse and turns to Harry.

       PAULINE

Putz.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. HOTEL RECEPTION ROOM - A LITTLE LATER

It’s a stunning reception room with a very long aisle. Yards and yards of white chiffon and thule adorn the aisle separating the men from the women. All heads turned are turned towards the dewy-eyed WEDDING SINGER with the pop idol good looks. He seemingly floats down the aisle singing a sappy song. Each note of his glorious voice ascends to the heavens above. The rotund helmet-haired old ladies swoon and gasp, their hearts thump pitter-patter. They haven’t felt this way since watching the Tom Jones Show ages ago.

CLOSE UP on the mother of the bride inhaling deeply, (p.s., She’s having an affair with the wedding singer).

       WEDDING SINGER

  (singing passionately)

True true love,

True true love…

CLOSE UP on Harry who looks like he’s about to barf and is the only wedding guest not watching the procession. We follow Harry’s line of vision to an old man sitting a few rows ahead, off to the side. The old man’s finger is knuckle-deep in his right and now distended nostril. Who knew that nostrils were so elastic? The old man catches Harry studying him with great disgust. He shoots Harry a “Fuck you I’ll pick my nose if I want to!” look. Harry gestures back a “You make me barf” look.

BACK TO the wedding singer who is now standing under the chupah, where the ceremonial canopy where the wedding vows will be exchanged. The wedding procession continues with the march of the BRIDESMAIDS and USHERS, every one sporting a goofy and self-conscious look.

     WEDDING SINGER

(singing passionately)

True love reigns,

True love reigns…

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. SYNAGOGUE HALL – LATER

The joint is hopping. A crowd has formed around three wild hora-within-horas in full swing. In the center of the innermost hora circle are the bride and groom, both seated on chairs and holding on for dear life as they hoisted up and down by the sweat-drenched and inebriated ushers.

Those wedding guests not aggressive enough to make it into any of the three horas crowd around to watch, clapping, singing, swaying to the frenzied beat.

CLOSE UP on Harry, the only wedding guest not swept away in the revelry of the festivities. He is standing a few feet away from the last layer of the crowd. Our eyes follow Pauline, who is standing a couple of steps in front of Harry. She is clapping to the music, taking it all in and totally loving it.

CLOSE UP back on Harry, who is staring at a couple discretely tucked away in a corner across the hall. Pauline turns around intrigued by what has captured Harry’s attention. We follow Harry’s line if vision to:

Yikes! It’s the mother of the bride and the cantor furtively exchanging sweet-nothings. The mother of the bride firmly squeezes the cantor’s bulging crotch. Even from across the hall it’s obvious that the holy man is blessed down below.

CLOSE UP back on Harry and Pauline.

Harry, still staring at the couple in the corner, is getting aroused and Pauline has taken note. She firmly squeezes Harry’s bulging crotch.

DISSOLVE TO:

INT. SYNAGOGUE HALL - A LITTLE LATER

Time to cruise after the wild horas. The band plays some soft jazz and the wedding guests mingle. Pauline and Harry are chatting with another youngish couple - JOY, who’s a little bit chubby and a little bit cute, (bad nose job and all) and her date, GOMEZ, all swishy and fey. Is he or isn’t he?

       PAULINE

So are you two going out?

       JOY                                    GOMEZ

               (SIMULTANEOUSLY)

  (EMPHATICALLY).             (SLURRING)

No!                                      Well...

Pauline and Harry look at each other, not quite sure what to make of this “couple.”

Joy and Gomez exchange knowing looks. Time to set the story straight. Well, kind of.

       GOMEZ

That would be hard

considering I live in

LA and Joy lives here.

Joy giggles nervously. Harry’s interest is piqued.

       HARRY  

 (to Gomez)
What do you do in LA?                                                                                                                             

       GOMEZ

I'm producing a pilot.

       HARRY

  (impressed)

A TV pilot?! Really?

       JOY

  (proudly)

Yeah, a sitcom for Fox.

       HARRY

Are you serious?

      GOMEZ

Yeah, it's called, "Leftovers."

It's like "Buddies," but ten

years later, the leftovers...

       HARRY

  (excited)

I love the idea! How'd

you do it?

      PAULINE

  (interrupting)

Harry's writing for Feldman-

       HARRY

  (interrupting)

No, I'm writing a Feldman

spec script. Big difference.

Tell me about Leftovers.

      GOMEZ

I got kind of lucky. I'm

subletting an apartment

from this guy, Mitch Luden,

who used to write on

Seinfeld. One day I'm

moving some of my stuff

to the apartment and Duane

Day, you know, the guy who

plays Chubba on Feldman, is
hanging out there and we start 

kibitzing. So I tell him about this

pilot script I wrote for this

Leftovers idea I had and he

loves it. He tells me that he’s been

looking to get his own series and

would like to read my script.

       HARRY

Amazing!

       GOMEZ

Yeah. Then he tells me

that he's already put

together an ensemble cast for

his project with Wenzday Wilson -

       HARRY

  (interrupting, excited)

Wenzday Wilson?! The Chaos Kid!?

I fucking love him!

       GOMEZ

And Sonny Pinto-

       HARRY

  (interrupting, excited)

Moochi?! As in, "Mandy Loves Moochi"?!

       GOMEZ

Yeah, that Moochi-

       HARRY

  (interrupting, excited)

Who else?

       GOMEZ

And Duane Day's girlfriend,

Cindy Saffron-

       HARRY

  (interrupting, excited)

Fran from "Homework Bugs"?!

What about Tootie?!

       GOMEZ

No Tootie.

       HARRY

  (disappointed)

No Tootie...

       GOMEZ

Anyhow, Duanereads the

script and loves it. He brings

it to Fox and they green-light a pilot.

It's the only script I ever wrote!

Pauline wraps her arms around Harry's waist.

       PAULINE
I think Harry should write about
me...

Harry rolls his eyes, trying to play it cool. Truth is, he’s loving Pauline's tactile attention.

A waitress carrying a tray of hors d'oeuvres approaches the group. No- couldn't be...

       GINETTE

 (deadpan, at Harry)
Hors oeuvres?

Joy and Gomez each pluck an hors d’oeuvre off the tray and pop them in their mouths.

       GOMEZ
  (chewing)
Yum, yum. Pigs in blankets! My favourite.

       GINETTE

  (to Harry, coolly)
Aren't you supposed to be
back in LA, with STEVE MARTIN?

Pauline and Joy are befuddled. Where is this coming from?

       GOMEZ
  (to Harry)
You know Steve Martin?

Harry opens up his mouth but the words just won't come out.
 

       GINETTE
Yeah, 'arry’s producing a STEVE MARTIN
movie. He didn't tell you?

The jig is up, Harry. Time for damage control.

       HARRY
  (to Ginette)
C-can we talk about this later?

       GINETTE
  (to Harry)
Sure. After I throw this
platter in your face.

Harry flinches and recoils. Joy and Gomez are taken aback, but not Pauline. She's already figured things out.

       GINETTE
Just joking, I need this job.

Ginette eyes a glass with red wine on the cocktail table that is next to the group. Gomez picks off another pig-in-a-blanket and pops it into his mouth.  Ginette steps towards the table to pick up the glass. Just as she is about to place it on her tray, she makes an abrupt turn towards Harry and throws the drink in Harry's face. The group freezes for a beat.

       GINETTE
On second thought, I can always get
another job.

Ginette storms out.

CLOSE UP on Harry’s shocked face dripping with red wine.

CUT TO:

Scenes from: An Affair to Remember

A Beau Dommage medley is playing. This Franco-pop-folk music, rich in vocal harmonies, is as distinctive to Montreal as Edith Piaf is to Paris.

FADE IN:

It's a spectacular Spring day. Ginette and Harry driving in a red convertible, top down through the winding road hugging the craggy grey cliffs of Mount Royal overlooking Montreal set against the Laurentian mountain range. They're laughing, hair blowing in the wind. All is right, all is beautiful. Basking in the glory of youth in love.

DISSOLVE TO:

Sunday-in-the-park, a Monet tableau. Ginette and Harry are walking hand-in-hand around Beaver Lake on top of Mount Royal. A Monet tableau. Ginette feeds a small flock of quacking white ducks a hunk of bread. Harry rip-offs a piece to feed the ducks, but recoils and drops the bread, as a cheeky duck nearly snaps off his fingers. Harry freezes for a beat while Ginette laughs hysterically. Another beat. Ginette spontaneously grabs Harry and plants a passionate kiss on his mouth.

DISSOLVE TO:

Ginette and Harry sipping white wine on the outdoor terrace of the cafe on top of Beaver Lake of Mount Royal. De rigueur for young lovers intoxicated from the ambiance of their first Sunday-in-the-park. They do a running commentary on the park strollers, as if those people only exist to entertain the couple. Harry points to an eccentric couple wearing ridiculous hats walking a ferret on a leash. The ferret climbs up the woman's leg and starts humping it. Harry and Ginette keel over in laughter and tumble into a passionate embrace.

DISSOLVE TO: 

Silhouettes of Ginette and Harry watching the sunset over Montreal from the look-out on Mount Royal. The sky glows a mixed hue of hot pink and tangerine. They kiss just as the scarlett sun sets on the city. As if on cue, an even sprinkling of city lights flick on over the grid of the cityscape.

DISSOLVE TO:

Tete-a-tete in a cozy restaurant on the Plateau, at a table by the window. The waiter brings them an impressive tray of fresh sea food, including a giant live lobster that almost snaps off Harry's pointing finger as if to say, "Not me,boychik!"

DISSOLVE TO:

Ginette and Harry charge up the outside winding staircase of a brownstone triples, into her apartment. Both are so excited that Ginette can barely get the key into the lock. When it finally opens, they swirl together, peeling off their clothes in a tornado of lust, groping their way to  the bedroom, but not quite making it. The floor will have to do. Ginette claps her hands; the lights go off. Sweet giggles melt into oohs and ahs.

FADE OUT:

THE SCREEN GOES BLACK FOR A BEAT.

SFX: (LOUDLY, ABRUPTLY) THE SOUND OF A SCRATCHED VINYL RECORD.