MIDDLE OF NOWHERE - MID MORNING
RICK wakes up in his makeshift bed, obviously hung over and still a bit inebriated. He is wearing an old pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a flannel shirt over the top. He has bare feet.He looks around. Can't see anyone. RICK: (calls out loud) Billy! No answer. RICK: Bill, you there, man? No answer. RICK: Jamie? ... Jamie? No answer. RICK: Where are you dudes? No response.RICK decides to explore the environmentalist that lies deep within him. He opens his arms wide, inviting in the Universe. He feels the morning sun on his face, and smiles. He takes a big breath of fresh, country morning air into his lungs and holds it majestically. The fresh air is too much for his lungs. He coughs, splutters and nearly chokes. He automatically fishes around in his shirt pocket for some cigarettes. None to be found. RICK: Shit. (calls out midst coughing) Hey you two - bring back some fags will ya? (under his breath) Wherever the hell you are. The coughing dies down. RICK attempts some bad "tai chi" moves he's seen on cable TV early in the morning. He doesn't last long - his knees shake and he has to sit down quickly. As he sits, he spies a bottle of whiskey, and - as if seeing an old friend - he picks it up and tips to his lips. It's empty. RICK: (mutters) Typical. (calling out) And we're out of whiskey! He sees a gas burner with coffee heating, (or if not, a thermos flask), obviously left there by his friends. RICK: (satisfied sigh of anticipation) Aah. He pours a cup of coffee, and sits down. He looks around again to see if it's safe for him to sit in a distorted version of a meditation position. He imagines he's at peace with the world, but soon something in the back pocket of his jeans makes the position uncomfortable. He wriggles until he drags out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. As though his life depended on it, he yanks open the top to find - one remaining cigarette. He smiles with relief. He lights the cigarette, sits back, inhales deeply, holds, enjoys, exhales. RICK: Ah ... doesn't get much better than this. (calling out) Except there's no WHISKEY! He has a chuckle at himself. Which brings on more coughs and splutters, bit of a sniffle now and then from the freshness of the morning, and anything that might have been put up his nose last night. But he's content. He closes his eyes, sits in some sort of Lotus Position, cigarette hanging from his lips, and begins a Mantra. As he chants, the cigarette moves in time with the Mantra. RICK: Om Mani Padme Hum ... Om Mani Padme Hum ... JAMIE comes racing in, panting, unable to communicate, distressed. He looks in a worse state than RICK. Clothes are dirtier, hair stringier, he looks absolutely wasted. JAMIE: Fuck ... fuck! Shit ... Fuck ... oh, Jesus Christ, RICK ... RICK is used to this type of histrionic. He opens one eye only. RICK: What is it now, my man? Om Mani Padme Hum. JAMIE sits down, head in hands for a sec, stands up, paces, muttering: JAMIE: ... I'm fucked, RICK ... I'm absolutely fucked. RICK: (chanting) Om Mani Padme Jamie's fucked. JAMIE grabs the cigarette from RICK, which prompts RICK to open both his eyes. JAMIE smokes and talks rapidly at the same time. Smoke goes everywhere. He grabs hold of RICK. RICK gives up on his quest for Nirvana. JAMIE: Help me, dude. You've got to help me. He paces. RICK: You're trippin', man. Here have some coffee. JAMIE: Maybe I'm dreaming? It's a fucking nightmare I'm having, right? (offering his arm or leg to Rick) Pinch me and fucking wake me up, man. RICK: (pushing him away) Pinch yourself, you moron. JAMIE: Pinch me! RICK does so. Hard.JAMIE yelps in pain.RICK laughs. RICK: Where've ya been? (looking around) Where's Billy? JAMIE: He's dead. END OF FIRST PAGE |