the Boo Radley Syndrome

The Pink Envelope, Confrontation, Acknowledgement, Resolution [Part 7]

2009-03-05T23:37:00.022-06:00

"What the f*ck is he doing here?!"

Although Ryan was only whispering, the sound of his voice was like a roar in my ears. Maybe it was his expressive tone, maybe it was the surprise in his voice, maybe it was fear. But Ryan had just seen something in the Easy, something that wasn't there before, and to let us in on his brand-new observation he cranked his head behind the bar and into the kitchen; and he jabbed his thumb in the direction of...the corner booth.

It was Mr. Frank. It was Mr. Frank at 10 in the PM. Breakfast at the Easy is served 24/7, no? Who could deny the man his breakfast, even if he decided to have it 9 hours earlier than normal?

The first thing that came to mind as I hunched over the bar--flicking the pink envelope between my fingers, eyes stabbing the clock (Why is he here at 10:27?)--was not "Who is Mr. Frank?" but, "How do I know that that is Mr. Frank?"

I mean, I had heard plenty about this man, and every bit of it was extravagant. But seated before me was no dynamic counter-terrorist, he was not the sage, surely not a monster, no killer, no romantic. This was..Mr. Frank, the commonplace norm of a man who no one knows. His life is private. Why should we know his labels?

But I need to know him! Why do I need to know him? Is it my job--24 hours on waitstaff at the diner? The voices in my head were circling to the point that I started to become dizzy. The mystery, the suspense; it was unnerving.

Thank the lord that Ryan took his order, as always.

I think Frank caught a glance at me a few times as I waited on the patrons at the bar, but I would have discarded his looks anyway. I was pretending he wasn't there, and the envelope in my apron was burning into my waist. I was getting hot and nervous, and I worried that Marcy would come back to the diner like she does on some of her 'lonely' nights. That would be the last thing I needed: more confusion and more Mr. Frank. Yes, Marcy would bring with her a damp reminder of the white-hot letter in my apron.

"Do you need anything, Gabe?" I said to the serene man at the end of the bar.

Gabe always liked to spend some time in the Easy; alone, with only a book. Today was one of those days. When he looked up from his newspaper, he gave me a comforting smile and made a passing gesture with his hand.

The Easy was going easy. I wondered why the crowd hadn't come in yet. On any other night--10:30 PM--this place is normally on fire with hipsters, skaters, drunks, and under-age smokers. But not tonight. I kidded myself--"When they saw Mr. Frank walk in they flew the coop."

Must be.

--

The warm green bathroom door was weightless as ever (Is this maple wood? What is this?) when I pulled it open. It always feels like you'll rip it off its hinges if you aren't careful. The door swung open and before me was the men's bathroom--sinks, then urinals, then stalls, as usual. I made it to the urinal before my bladder could explode. Serving coffee all day usually means you'll be drinking coffee all day; and drinking coffee all day doesn't just keep you awake..

Before I could zip up, the stall at the end--which was occupied, unbeknownst to me, at the time of my entrance--let out a flushing noise, and its occupant made his way (slowly) to the sinks. My head cocked to the corner stall. It was Mr. Frank coming from the stall! Mr. Frank coming towards me to the sink. How could I have missed him in the corner booth? Surely, something like Mr. Frank wouldn't go unnoticed in my eyes. Well, that must be it; you see, I never saw him in his booth on the way to the urinal. Why would I go to the bathroom if I had the slightest hint that he might've been there?

My urination stopped. Cut short. It felt, too, as if I had a tight, thin rope around my neck. There was a hot and prickly sensation traveling up and down my back. I zipped up and pulled the flush as Mr. Frank passed behind me. He was going to wash his hands. I seriously debated the health code policy of employee hand-washing. I couldn't wash my hands next to him. I couldn't even exist next to him. I needed to get out of there. So I paced quickly to bathroom exit.

"Excuse me. Could I see that?" It was Mr. Frank's voice. It sounded friendly enough; otherwise, I would've ran out and slammed the door shut (probably knocking it off its hinges). But I turned around. He was pointing to my apron. The letter! I could feel the blush in my face. I swallowed.

"There's no paper towels here to dry my hands on." added Mr. Frank.
Of course. The napkins! He just wanted napkins! The relief brought upon me a cool sweat. The nightmare was over..or was it?
I reached into my apron to retrieve the napkins and almost instantly withdrew. The letter bit me. It actually bit me. I don't think I screamed, but a suffocated yelp managed its way out of my throat. I tried again.

"Here, sir." He took the napkins with a thank you.

--

The sizzle of eggs and hashbrowns hypnotized me. Eduardo, one of the cooks, was making a smoke run, and I told him I'd help with the food, me being a former cook and all. Besides, the Easy was practically empty. So I stared blankly at the grill thinking of the letter as the food cooked. It was time to make a decision--what to do with the envelope? Marcy's little love letter. I was fixed on the grill. My fingers snuck into the apron and slipped the pink envelope from its pocket. I held it to my face. Frank. That's what it said.
I let go.

The envelope sank to the grill and began to sizzle with the eggs and hashbrowns--an orchestra of buzzes and sputter, a team of rolling snare drummers.

I snapped awake and, understanding now what exactly i was doing: understanding that the postage that Marcy had entrusted with me--she trusted me--was, for a brief approximate of 8 seconds, cooking with the rest of breakfast; now that I understood, my arm shot out for the spatula and I began to scrape the envelope from the searing grill plate. I tugged upward and, as if I were removing a band-aid, the envelope peeled off the grill.

It's safe. It's still alive.

I walked to the bar and stuck my head out. There was Mr. Frank, as before: finishing up his meal and sipping coffee, too. I withdrew backwards into the kitchen and came to the garbage pail. Pressing firmly and swiftly, I made three rips to the envelope and disposed of the remains.

It was done. And I was happy because I knew.

Marcy didn't know Frank. I knew this. I ripped the letter because I couldn't deliver it, quite actually and metaphorically. The Frank to which the pink envelope was addressed does not exist. At least not at the Easy.

Mr. Frank--We'd got him all wrong. There was no definition for Mr. Frank that I could have gotten from the diner, from anyone. No one knows this man. I've asked all the patrons and employees; it's like I've asked the diner itself. Mr. Frank, ultimately, will never be revealed from these sources.

So whoever Marcy was writing to could not have been Mr. Frank, as much as she would hope it to be.

The letter can have no meaning-- it's null, it's obsolete; unsubstantiated, tenuous, non-existent; it's out of place. It shouldn't be there. And now that the letter is done I understand.

I now know that I can know nothing.

Unless...
--

The track ahead of me was like a tunnel and at the end was the light, Mr. Frank. From the bar to the corner booth, with and empty house on either side of me, I dragged myself to the finish line, thoughts storming through my head. Prickling ideas and headstrong ambitions. Mr. Frank, here, today, right now--Mr. Frank was mine. The only way for me to know is to connect. To confront Mr. Frank.
Everything began to fade around me, and we were alone. I had only three or four more steps and I was there, standing upright beside the very real Mr. Frank in the corner booth.

10:59. He had to be here for a reason.

"More coffee, Mr. Frank?" I said. I didn't have the coffee pot with me. I just couldn't think of anything else to say.

He looked at me and answered, "Hello."

And in that moment, I felt an assurance, a pure sense of comprehension, or at least the start of it. I felt the air being knocked out of me, and at the same time I felt my lungs fill up to the point where I thought they'd burst. This was it.

So I sat down. "Hello," I answered, nodding.

I smiled because I knew. This was Mr. Frank. This quaint dawning of a conversation, was the basis of my description of the mythic Mr. Frank.

And no source could beat this.

A Lost Cause. A Terrible Cause. [part 6]

2008-12-23T22:05:00.019-06:00

"Well where the hell have you been?" A voice barked out at Jack.

Tina wore an ugly look on her face; she wasn't very happy.

"I was uh.. I was just.." Jack sputtered.

Chris came up from behind grabbing his shoulders, smiling, speaking smoothly, "Relax, Tina. He was just taking out the trash for me, and we stopped and had a short chat." He gave Jack a squeeze as he said this.

"Tell that to the rush that just came in, you lazy bums. Now get back to work, ya'idiots." She finished scribbling down an order and gave it to the kitchen, then shuffled off to attend to someone.

Chris twirled Jack around and looked at him straight in the eye, his smile disappearing, "Don't expect that kind of help too often, alright?" His eyes looked gaunt, slightly sunk into his face. He broke his grim seriousness with a fake looking smile and tapped Jack on the cheek. "Now get back to work, ya'idiot," he ordered in a mock-Tina voice. "Or I'll have to hurt you with my knife." From his grim, serious look, he gave another quick smile, released Jack from his grip, grabbed a coffeepot, and went off to fill mugs in his section.

Jack watched as Chris poured coffee and pulled off a few sarcastic comments at a table of flirtatious, teenage girls. They merely giggled at his remarks. Even through the back of Chris's head, Jack could tell that he was rolling his eyes in annoyance.

He glanced over at his own section and there was just one man there: Earl. He sat at the window table opposite the corner booth, Frank's booth.

Earl was an old man. On his left hand was a ring, but everyone knew that his wife had died from cancer a few years ago. He wore a brown, leather, bomber jacket, a white polo shirt, and clean, khaki pants. His white hair was full and neatly combed over. He wore a pair of old, big horn-rimmed glasses. His face was wrinkled, his forehead furrowed with lines of wisdom. He smiled a mouth of neat, overly white dentures. He was one of the oldest men in the area. He had been living there for a while. If you wanted to know about anyone, he would be the guy to ask... He sat there patiently, reading the newspaper.

Jack walked over, "Hey, Earl, how you doing?"

"Well, I'm doing just fine, sir." His voice was that of a man who had been speaking for many years, but stopped recently. It was a bit hoarse, but it was strong. Since his wife died, he didn't talk as much, but he was still friendly with the town, and he periodically played chess in the park.

"Can I get you anything?"

He looked up from his paper and looked at Chris, "Oh, just a coffee, I think will be just fine, son."

Jack went back to grab the second coffee pot and a thick, ceramic mug. He put a teaspoon in it and brought it back to the table. He started to pour coffee into the mug when a thought struck him. "Hey, Earl," He looked up from his paper again, "I've been trying to figure this man out.. You know the man who sits in that booth over there?" He pointed back to the corner booth.

"Mr. Frank?" Earl inquired.

"Yeah, him. I've been asking around... trying to figure out who that man is. He's a strange guy, have you noticed him? I mean, he almost blends into the background sometimes, but I've noticed him recently. I ask people who he is.. but--"

"-- You don't seem to get the same story out of any two of them, do'ya?"

"Yeah! It's strange.. But I know you have to know him, Earl. Who is he?"

He closed his newspaper and folded it up, putting it down on the tabletop and leaned his arms on the table, his right hand wrapped around his coffee, "Mr. Frank.. He is not as significant as you think. He's just a simple man, trying to get by. Just like you or me, sir. Now, the first time I saw the man, he was walking in this diner and he sat right over there," he pointed at the corner booth, " with his wife. Oh, the look that they would give each other. Mind you, this is from many, many years ago. When he was still young."

"When you were younger, too?" Jack joked.

"Son, I was never younger;" he chuckled, "now shut your mouth." He took a sip of coffee, black, and resumed, "Boy.. those two looked happy. The look that he would give her and the look that she gave him. Young love, I tell you. It's pure and tainted with love and lust. Who cared back then? My own darling and I watched them together and laughed. They would hold hands and I would know from the look in his eyes that all he wanted was to be as close to her as he could. It was quite a sight, Jack. Have you ever felt a thing like that, my friend?" Before Jack could respond (it was more of a rhetorical question than a regular one anyway), Earl resumed, "Yes... it was quite something. My, she was quite a looker. We had to wonder how a funny looking guy like Frank got her. My wife said that he wasn't that bad looking. Frank's girl, though.. Whooooheee, she was a looker...

The thing is, a while ago, I can't seem to recall how long ago, she just went away. His wife, I mean."

And Earl paused again, looking into the space in front of him, as if he was trying to remember something. Jack just stared back at him, not wanting to disturb his thinking process. Jack was reminded of his grandfather, and how in his late days, he would also stare blankly at things. The look in his eyes were not unlike the look in Earl's eyes right now. But as soon as he went into a trance, he came out of it, "Wha? Oh, uh.. where was I?" He shook his head quickly to wake himself up, rubbing the stubble on his chin and picking up his coffee again. As Earl took another sip, he saw the veins of Earl's hand popping out, green and thin.

"You were talking about how his wife.. She disappeared." Jack reminded him, eager, but not showing too much excitement, like a boy too afraid to ask the policeman about his gun. He remembered his own grandfather, and how he liked to rattle on about himself or his kids or his friends or his time in the war. Korean. Vietnam. "What happened to her?" He tried to keep Earl on subject.

"No one knows, kid. It was after a while they were together. A long while actually. They just stopped showing up. I seen him around town at the store, but his wife wasn't with him anymore. He didn't come to the Easy at all though. I was one of the few people who notice him for who he is: just a man trying to get by. He didn't come here for a few years, but I still did. Time doesn't stop for one man, for whatever problems he might have. I came here, I always sit down right here, and I look over to that booth over there and I would see if Mr. Frank was there. He didn't come for a few years. But one day, I came here to get some coffee in my thermos before I went out to work, it was ... oh.. say six in the morn'. And there he was. It had been a few years since I had seen that man sitting there.. His wife wasn't with him, of course. I wanted to ask him where she was. I never had the nerve do to it. Even through my days fighting the VC in the jungle, son, I never had the guts to walk up to that man and ask. He's a queer man, and I have no business talking to him."

"So you don't know who or what he is? Where his wife went?" Jack inquired, slightly disappointed now; if anyone would know, it would have been Earl.

"Sorry, son. All those stories you hear, those are who he is. Frank is the man you make him to be. You can never really know a man. Never. Now, Jack, I think you should stop trying to figure this out, respect the man's privacy. I know that's what I would want."

Jack thanked Earl and got up, "Thanks for talking to me, Earl. I'm going to go to the bathroom." He walked to the bathroom, swinging the unusually light door with one finger, got in and shut the door.

You can never really know a man.. Never. He pulled out the letter from Marcy to Frank. He held the corners and twirled it in his fingers. How can you love something like that? Someone who you don't even know... It's so blind.. So useless. There is no reason she should even love him at all. She's just in love with the mystery that surrounds him. He was the only man who would reach out to her. That's why. Nothing else.

He smelled the letter again, trying to figure out what to do with it.

Episode 5 - Smoke Break [part 5]

2008-10-15T19:33:00.015-05:00

FADE IN:

EXT. THE EASY - DAY

Behind the Easy--RYAN, JACK, and KALIM are standing outside on break; Ryan, smoking, huddles near a trashcan turned ashtray while Jack stands by his side. Kalim, a ghetto black man of Jack's height with a sculptured haircut, chats mildly with his surroundings.

RYAN

He's a butcher, man.

KALIM (O.S)

That's what's up.

A pause, Ryan takes a drag of his cigarette. Exhale.

RYAN

You're lucky I let you take this break, guy. I didn't get any breaks my first day. Bullsh*t, anyway: 24 hours.

JACK

I appreciate it.

RYAN

Yea.

Ryan puffs smoke in Jack's direction and Jack tries to fan it away. He moves closer as to escape the cloud of smoke. Jack swallows--

JACK

What was that about Mr. Frank just now? Cold-blooded killer?

RYAN

Ya.

JACK

{That's neat. But how do you know?}

RYAN

Kalim told me. (a beat)

He spits the truth.

Kalim huddles behind Ryan.

KALIM

Yea, man, want me to tell him?

RYAN

Tell him, man.

KALIM

Lemme spin it for ya real quick.

RYAN

Ayuh.

Kalim pushes through Ryan and begins to rhyme with theatrics; Jack, his audience.

KALIM

I'm gonna kick it from the start

Trick ya wit my art

Show ya somethin

I got it

From the blackest streets at night

Excite

Givin you a fright

Dash it wit some pepper

Let's make it mo' better

Than the sickest bloodshed

Wastin' all those suckas dead

Cap 'em in the head

Or with a knife

His own wife

Strife!

A body lines the flower bed.

Kaium falls back, empowered, confident, as he finishes his performance. Ryan looks amused.

KALIM

That's for real, son!

Jack is confused, wearing a face that expects Kalim to tell the part of the story that makes sense.

JACK

Huh?..

RYAN

Mr. Frank killed his wife--murder.

JACK (unbelieving)

That's for sure.

KALIM

It's da truth, yo; he ain't never liked that ho. Aha (cackle)!

RYAN

please.. it's like, Mr. Frank finds out his wife is cheating on him; he just...did away with her.

JACK

Did away with her?

RYAN

Yea, like i said. (a beat)

Killed her.

Ryan flicks his cigarette.

Jack's eyes seem to be looking through it all: an expression of deep thought. Ryan gives him a look over.

RYAN

Man, it's like this:

INT. DINING ROOM - NIGHT

Mr. Frank and his WIFE--a short, slender brunette of middle age, are eating a steak dinner at the table. Wife is trying to hide her years, mocking with makeup and a bogus hairdo. The room is well furnished with upperclass dining-ware. Husband and wife exchange few words in MUTE.

RYAN (narr.)

You know, couples get older. The grow apart, to the point where every conversation is about what movies are coming on tonight, their nephew's birthday, cholesterol.

INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT

Frank shaves in front of a mirror. Below the mirror, a fancy porcelain sink. He uses an old-fashioned straight razor, taking his careful time.

RYAN (narr.)

No life in it.

Wife enters. With a wretched face she complains on MUTE. Startled, Frank knicks his neck with the razor and is shot off into an argument with Wife.

RYAN (narr.)

And it doesn't help that she's a total bitch.

EXT. THE EASY - DAY

Ryan coughs at the realization of Jack's misunderstanding. He looks around to find where Kalim has gone off to.

RYAN (calling)

Kalim! Hey! He doesn't get it. Take two.

Kalim dashes toward Jack, eagerness in his step.

KALIM (in flow)

Ok, aight

It goes like this

It's night

strange and mysterious

The sky closed up now the fury comes down

Repaying vengeance--you can't see when you look around

Cuz it be goin on inside; indoors, interior

Frank, he chillin in the kitchen, his hand on the trigger

Cutlery, wood block, Wusthof brand

High carbon - Stainless steel, an omen in his hand

A call from the steps, the Mrs. on the prow

INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT

Frank is alone in the kitchen, at the countertops. He stands in front of a wood block of knives admiring a chef's knife; turns it over in his hands. He looks up alarmed when his wife calls:

WIFE (O.S.)

FRANK! I need you upstairs, now!

INT. STAIRCASE - NIGHT

Wife looks down from the balcony in the direction of the kitchen. Her eyebrows curl into a glare. Impatient.

WIFE (calling)

It's the drain again; clogged!

INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT

Frank is nowhere to be found. The knives are scattered and one is missing.

EXT. THE EASY - DAY

[same as before]

Kalim continues flowing without skipping a beat.

KALIM (in flow)

She makes it down in time to find

the missing Frank and the scattered left-behinds

she scans the kitchen and not the pantry

where her surprise/demise is waiting patiently

Behold--

INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT

Wife enters kitchen frame. She seems to be alone in the room. Her eyes frantically pass over every detail in the room. Where is Frank?

She looks now to the the cabinet under the sink. She opens it and retrieves a bottle of DRAIN-O (low-shot).

She gives a suspecting glare to the half-ajar pantry door

> then prances hurriedly out of the room.

INT. PANTRY - NIGHT

Light seeps in through the crack in the door. Frank is crouched under shelves of snack foods and canned goods. The chef knife in his hand casts an eerie gleam.

INT. FOYER - NIGHT

Wife goes to the mirror above a small table and gives herself a look over. On the table is a standing picture frame with Frank's picture inside. She flips it down.

INT. STAIRS - NIGHT

Wife ascends stairs harshly. Frank appears in the frame and carefully follows her, making no sound.

EXT. THE EASY - DAY

[same as before]

KALIM (in flow)

She needs to get a grip

She needs to turn around

But when Frank closes in

He don't make a sound

(For the kill)

She is unawares and stares up straight ahead

She go to po the draino take a bath then go to bed

But when she doesn't have clue

Frank knows just the thing to do--

INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT

[same as before]

Wife stands in front of the bathtub and unscrews the draino cap. Behind her is Frank.

EXT. THE EASY - DAY

[same as before]

KALIM (in flow)

He pulls the plug with a tug at her wrist

She's stuck in his grasp- a clasp. He cannot miss!

INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT

[same as before]

Frank makes a sharp snatch at his wife's wrist (Wife yelps) and yanks her around (she faces him). She drops the bottle of draino and it spills into the tub down the drain.

a short CUT TO: EXT. THE EASY - DAY

Kalim's eyes are huge as he casts the most bizarre expression. A mad gaze.

quick CUT TO: INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT

Shrill screams

and Frank delivers countless jabs with the blade. He tears at his wife and pulls the blood from her. She falls into the tub and her blood spills around the tub basin.

Blood seeps down the unclogged drain.

EXT. THE EASY - DAY

[same as before]

RYAN (smirking)

Yea...

Jack is thinking. He runs around the corner to look into the diner windows. Hands on the window pane, he looks to the empty corner booth.

FADE TO BLACK

I'm too old for ghost stories [part 4] EDIT: Sept 16, 2008, 9:30PM CST

2008-09-02T12:34:00.078-05:00

She pulls the letter out of her purse and looks at me. I stare at her in disbelief. She wants me to do what? She repeats, "I want you to give this to him." She gives me those eyes. You know what I'm talking about? The googly, shiny, puppy eyes. I can't say no. But I can't say yes. I just sit there, unmoving, staring at her. She slides the envelope across the table towards me and says, "I just can't bear to do it myself, Jack, I'd feel... too silly." With that, she leaves a few dollars on the table, gets up, and walks to the cash register. She walks away with such grace, but her body extenuates her young, awkward beauty. She might be in her twenties, but she has the spunk of a teen. I remember those days..
The door to The Easy chimes as she steps out. The rain has slowed to a drizzle by now. But the clouds are still ominously dark. The setting sun's beams are shining brilliantly, fighting to be seen through the clouds. But it is still dark on the streets.

I look at the envelope on the table. In black ink was "Frank" written in script. It stands out again the pink paper. I pick it up and sniff it. It smells good.. like
(the smell of a bomb squad's blood on his hands)
someone's perfume. I guess that's what Marcy wears. I flip the letter over; It's sealed all the way down on the other side. It looks slightly worn, like it's been her purse for some time. She wants me to give this to him? The strangest man in the diner? I guess... he's friendly enough. Is it a letter where she is to spill her feelings out onto Frank's plate? Where she is ripping her heart out and offering it to him? Maybe it's just a note asking him out. I guess I wouldn't know. I scoff and put it in my apron. Maybe some other time, Marcy. I get up and walk back behind the counter.

But the letter feels heavy against my leg. She gave me a responsibility... I can't let her down... I guess. Maybe I -will- give it to him. How would he react? What if Frank rejects her? Would I have to tell her? This is turning out to be a little more complicated than I thought. Perhaps I could pass it to him during dinner.

Yeah.

He's sitting there in his corner, eating his chop steak. So I walk up to him with the letter, determined. I make sure the determination shows in my walk. But I'm trying to make it seem as if I'm going to offer him a refill of coffee. Tina would later gossip, "He was strutting towards the table. He seemed determined, ya'see? I knew it from his walk.. and the glint in his eye."
As I walk up to him, I say, "Hey, Mr. Frank, this came in for you." I reach into my apron and pull out the letter. But before I can hand it to him, I feel a thud and a burning sensation. It's in my chest. I look down. There's a steak knife in my chest. Mr. Frank's hand is on the handle of it. The cold metal is stuck down the the hilt and a crimson liquid is trickling out the sides onto Mr. Frank's hands. Is that my blood? I look into his cold, blue eyes.
well.. why did you do that?
I can feel the serrated edges slicing through my beating heart. Well, no, it's not beating anymore. I don't think I'm standing anymore, actually. Well that's interesting... the ground is cold... it's moist. Why is it moist? Is it from my blood? Hm.. Everything is.. a little.. blurry now. I think it would be a good time for a nap.
Well... I hope it doesn't happen like that. I sigh and look at the letter. How.. pink. Dammit, Marcy, why did you have to put me up to this?

Ding.

What is that? Ah someone's trying to get my attention. It's a little service bell we have next to the register. Usually for people who want to pay or want a dessert from the refrigerated display case to the left of the cash register. The bell isn't usually used if someone's alreayd behind the counter. Or as Chris once told me "You'll only hear this if you're incompetent.

Ding.

I turn around to take a look at who is doing the dinging. But I just see the front of the diner; there's no one there. My brain reels. Hah, of course. I lean forward over the counter a little and look down. There's a small child there, too short for the bar. "What's up, little man? Want some dessert?" His fingers grasp on to the side of the counter as he climbs onto the barstool. He's cute. "How old are you?"

He holds up seven fingers, "I'm..." He pauses and looks at his hands, then holds up two more. "I'm nine."

"Well, kiddo, are you here by yourself?"

"Nuh uh, my parents are over there." He points to a couple sitting near the window. They seem to be absorbed in talk. In fact, I don't even know if they knew their kid left to get some cake. Parents these days.

"So how was school today? It was raining pretty hard." I look at the time, it's 5PM. But the the town was under heavy rain for a few hours now. "Was there any flooding down there?"

"Yeah... it was raining reeeeal hard. And the water was coming up in the street where the cars come to pick us up. The buses were real tall though, so we didn't have no problems with the rain. My mommy and daddy thought it would still be ok to drive through the rain to get here though... But they were talking and I was getting bored and they thought I was fidgeting too much so they told me to get some dessert."

way to get rid of your kid. but i guess i can't blame you.. huh? he sure is a talker..

"Alright, kiddo. Do you know what you want?"

"That one!" He points at the red velvet cake.

"Good choice.." I open up the back of the display case and put a slice of cake on a plate.

When I come back to give the cake to him, he's got Mr. Frank's letter in his hands. "Who's this for?" He inquires, looking at me square in the eye. His eyes are deep blue.

"Well take a look at who it's addressed to. See?" I point at the name in script, "It's for Mr. Frank. Do you know him? He comes here a lot. He always sits in that corner over there." I point to the back where Frank sits.

His eyes grew wide, "Is this from that crazy lady?" He drops the letter back on the table, frightened.

"Whoa, whoa, wait, little man, what are you talking about?" He seems to be in petrified, grasping the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white.
"Mr. Frank is a bad man." He looks to the corner where Mr. Frank sits, to check he's not there. "Wa-well one of my friends told me that there was this lady here and she was crazy, like.. like under Mr. Frank's spell. He's controlling her mind! He's a monster you know. Did you know that? But he's worst at night. And even worse on full moon nights. You better watch out. He's a monster, and she's just crazy."

"Wait.. no I don't understand, how do you know this?"

"From what I hear he was sitting outside there," he points at the benches outside the door of the Easy, "and he was smoking his cigarette and that was when Miss Marcy was out there... and she was sad, very sad and --and that was when he took advantage of her. he put his spell on her and now she's his pet, yes sir. My friend told me it was like he took her soul! he jus' looked her in the eye and he sucked it outta her, and now he keeps her soul in a jar somewhere in his house with the rest of his victims' souls, all she does now is --is follow mr. frank around and want him and want him but he won't ever give her his love and she will be sad for as long as she lives and she won't never find love again. but mr. frank, he's a deadly monster, you know. he hadn't only taken her soul, nuh uh. he owns her now."

He sits up in his chair and leans toward me, he is eager to share his boundless information, "my friends and me always dare each other to go up to his house and look into the window. my parents always tell me," He puts his hand on his hip and makes his voice as deep as it can go, "'Don't go bother Mr. Frank.' and they tell me that because you they know that it's dangerous and mr. frank is a monster...
everyone, ask anyone, they all always hear screams from in there, the grown ups don't believe us though.. sometimes they're not even human, they sound like a dog or a wolf or something. but then sometimes it sounds like there's a woman screaming and it's a scream of terror, mister. we always try to look inside and see what's going on and there was this one time i wasn't scared, nuh uh. my friends were scaredy cats though and they stayed behind the fence, but i crawled under it and i was real low and i was trying to be real quiet. and i got to see inside. but.." he hesitates for a moment, "it was really hard looking in there, the windows were real grimy. but there were heads in there. heads hanging on the wall like they're his prizes!"

I stand in front of this kid, captivated by his story. It's really quite interesting, but I think I've heard enough. "Listen kid.. maybe you should take your cake back to your table with your parents alright?"

He stop and relaxes. As he gets off the bar stool, he tells me, "You better watch out, Mr. Jack."

...How interesting. That kid knows where Mr. Frank lives. And.. he's got heads in his house, apparently. I'd have to see that for myself. Hah. What an interesting story though.. Poor Marcy.. caught in Mr. Frank's "spell." Perhaps it's a bit more like love.

That night, I follow Mr. Frank home, sneaking out of my shift. He doesn't live to far away I think. He just walks home ever time he comes to the Easy since it's so close. So it's easy to follow him. The clouds cast an ominous, eerie shadow. The shadows seem too exaggerated, too surreal. I look up at the white orb floating in the sky. Good thing it's a full moon, too; still, I can barely see anything. The fog is creeping in after the rain. Mr. Frank's silhouette pierces through the fog though, making him an easy target to follow. I follow about a block down, making sure he doesn't hear my footsteps. Or my heart beating.
He steps off the street and goes towards a house. And, hell, it's a house right out of a ghost story. The yard slopes up; the house stands on a hill. The yard is overgrown with weeds and God knows what else. Mr. Frank opens his door; it makes a loud creaking sound. I'm still standing on the sidewalk, spying on him. When I see a light turn on on the second story, I hop the fence and press my face against his window to look inside, to see if there are really heads in there. I try to peer in, but I hear some footsteps behind me. A gruff voice, "You shouldn't've come here kid."
I woke up in the darkness. No.. there is just a bag over my head. I can't seem to move. Am I strapped to a chair? "Where am I?"

"You're in my basement. But this will be the last place you see. Because, you see, you're going to die down here. After I take your soul. Have you witnessed such a thing? It is one of the most painful things in the world; knowing that you won't live the same way again is part of it. After that, your life will be virtually meaningless. You won't have a purpose. Heh." He lifts the bag off of my head, and his cold, blue eyes are in front of me. "You shouldn't have been so curious. Can you get them a refill of coffee?"

"What?" I ask Mr. Frank through the bag.

He repeats, "Can you them a refill of coffee?" Hey I'm talking to you."

Gabe taps me on the shoulder, "How's it going?" I'm interrupted from my day-dreaming.

"Hey Gabe. Nothing much.. I was just talking to that kid over there about Mr. Frank."

"Oh ok. You just looked a little dazed, that's all. Hm.. How's your first day going so far, Jack?" He takes a mug off a hook and pours himself a cup of coffee. His mustache somehow stays dry when he takes a sip of coffee. "Not going looney from the lack of sleep are ya?"

I laugh, "Hah, not too bad.. Just talking to some of the patrons, getting to know them."

"Hey! Full moon tonight! Did you know that? I don't know if you've been able to see it from in here. But it looks great out there. Tonight it should be as bright as it should ever be."

Today's actually what the Chinese call the Mid-Autumn Festival. It was to celebrate the end of the summer harvest season. And they eat a lot of food. I had some Chinese neighbors once. They told me about it. I always remembered it since they fed me so much food. Hah! Gotta lay off some of that red meat, I think. Gotta keep the missus happy."

"Heh. Yeah Gabe. I'll talk to you later.. Seems more people are coming in now, huh? I guess you were right. The rain stopped."

I sigh.

Looks like this letter thing might be more complicated than I thought.

Marcy Mae Spills the Beans [part 3]

2008-08-27T16:10:00.027-05:00

It began with a trickle, a slight pitter-patter on the window panes of the Easy. By 12:00 noon the rain had surmounted to near-torrential downpour. Tina said she was thankful that there wasn't any hail, but all the same, it sounded like hell out there. Jack, helplessly cornered by orders of hot chocolate and iced tea, made note of the weather--to the employees of the Easy, it was easily accepted that, until the weather bit back, the flow of customers would be virtually non-existant.
However, there were customers present who still needed their re-fills, and some of the lot hadn't even been waited on yet. "You know, you could at least try." Chris' voice rang mockingly through his head. True, Jack hadn't been the best of waiters, yet it almost seemed as though he had gained some respect because of this; it was his first day on the job.

-----

The rain continues.
Jack pans once more over his customers, the audience waiting for the slip, for the chance they might get to hurl their tomato. Of course, he was a bit worried on his first day; and although he knew that these patrons weren't exacting his every move, the rain didn't help. The rain changed Jack. It did. It was a claustrophobic sensation, the walls closing in. He knew this was the calm (and he should have taken it likewise), that there would be nothing new coming his way, a significant depletion in the customer walk-in rate, until it cleared, yet he felt stuck--tied down to his customers and showing them his errors.
Still in the diner was Marcy, who had been there since 11:00; Earl, who entered just before the trickle; a couple unknown to Jack; a group of friends, men; lastly, an older lady--brunette. Ryan stood erect, tall, next to the group of guys, pen in hand, seemingly annoyed by their lackadaisical effort on choosing what to eat. Jack could almost hear him thinking, "Are they even paying for their coffee?". The kitchen was noisy, but with social balderdash, not the sizzling griddle or clamber of pans.
Mr. Frank had gone away in quite the discreet manner. It was right as Tina began her quiet chatter to Jack that Frank stepped out. As the matter of fact, it was nearly right as he exited the Easy that the rain started. He left without a trace, and Jack had been curious in the kitchen--"Where's Mr. Frank?" he asked as the cooks looked up, their faces exclaiming the question of why are you so curious?
Jack realized it was none of his business but thought he would make it his business before long.
Between the time of Tina's testimonial and the rainstorm, Jack had been toying with the idea of Bomb Squad Frank, trying to decide who to share the gossip with. It had just been shown that the cooks were uninterested, even frowning at Jack's interest. It figured to be the same with all other employees excluding Tina. Therefore, tickled with curiosity, Jack began his step toward Tina. She was idle behind the cash register.
"Tina," he initiated, with novice nervousness.
"Yea, sweetie?""
"Mr. Frank--it's about Mr. Frank: how come no one who works here's ever talked to him. Well, you know what I mean. How is it no one's really said much of anything to him?--well, of course except for his order and the little things."
Through all of this Tina was silent, devotedly attented to the Jack in front of her; she had taken the glasses from the bridge of her nose and let them fall to her bust, hanging on the cords that held them to her neck.
"Ya know, I really can't say--Have you ever tried it? I mean, really try to say something to him. You always get this feeling inside, like all the things you knew how to say had dried up in a desert."
Jack took this insight; a type of note-to-self. He glanced back to the corner booth, empty, and felt parched already. Before he could think any longer, the budding waiter inside of him raised this question: "Why Jack, if you're so thirsty, what can you say of your customers?" He looked to Marcy, the one he was to be attending. Yea, it looked like she could use another cup of joe, but there was more. Marcy looked lonely; she looked as if she emanated loneliness in a radius around her. So much so that Jack was a bit worried to walk over and be caught in her net of gloom.
She was still his to look after, so he grabbed the coffee pot. "Who knows," he thought delightedly to himself, "maybe a cup of coffee is just what she needs." Jack liked to think of himself as an uplifting waiter.
Marcy looked up now, cold eyes, and Jack poured down the warmth. He snatched a vacant chair and sat with her, across from her.
"Marcy. Don't mind if I sit?" Jack started.
"That's fine, Jack. Looks pretty easy now. The rain is coming down and it don't bother you--no more customers for a bit."
Just as she said this, the door swung open and the little bell sounded. It was Gabe, wiping himself down and discarding a wet newspaper into the trash bin. Jack heard the calling, and with a little dread, began to pick himself up from the comfort of conversation.
Ryan reassures "I got it," as he passes away from the group of guys, still indecisive on their order. Ryan may not seem enthusiastic about his job, but performance-wise he's considered the top, even beating out oldie Tina. It's why he's head waiter.
Relieved, Jack continued:
"Saved." A pause, while Jack observes Marcy, who drinks her fresh coffee down. Soothing. "So what's eating you? You look on the sad side."
"Oh, it's nothing. It's the rain." She answered back immediately, but with discomfort. Now she only stared down at her mug and swished it around.
"Maybe some food. You think maybe that'll cheer you up?"
"No, I'm not hungry."
Conversation had halted, had been halting. Jack realized that it wasn't easy to talk to unhappy customers. He began searching his head for topics of interest, unable to pin anything that seemed to be a conversation stimulator. How he had forgotten! Mr. Frank! Jack could easily tell her about Bomb Squad Frank. And so it started, it spilled out:
"You know Mr. Frank, right? Corner booth, weird fella. I heard some pretty crazy stuff about him."
Marcy was delighted, interested. Jack had won.
"Yea, Frank." said Marcy with a smile.
"Yea, I heard he's ex-bomb squad; you know, like counter-terrorist, defusal type." Marcy's smile faded at this. Jack was making an effort to keep her interest: "Story goes, his team is killed in an explosion and he's the only one left...Yea, no kidding. Like, the guilt has to be overwhelming. It's why he's so quiet and kept to himself."
Marcy had been in a type of frown for a minute or so. Was she tearing? Her face and eyes were red and warm. After a pause she says:
"That's not true."
This shooed Jack; uncomfortable, unwanted. "Well that's what Tina told me." Awkward silence. Jack looked around, unable to retain eye contact with Marcy who was looking laxly downward.
The rain continues.
Jack had an idea. A smirk grew on his mouth, and he looked to Marcy; half-inspired, half-curious--he tries once more.
"Ok, ok; Tina is known to gossip, I guess. Right? I mean, she's old. Wives-tales and whatnot." Now more serious--"I'm sorry. He's not who I think. But apparently you've got some kind of opinion on him...who is Frank?"
She sips her coffee and lets it drink down. She says to Jack confidently, "Frank is a friend."
"So you know him? Personally?" Jack asked almost instantaneously.
"No," Mary corrected, "no, not personally; look, it's a long story--"
"That's fine, I'm not going anywhere."
"It's complicated.."
Marcy felt downtrodden, wanting to explain her view of Mr. Frank while at the same time knowing she didn't want Jack to be mixed up in this all. She stirred, emotionally. Jack saw that she wasn't going to take this any further and stepped in thusly--
"Marcy, just tell me. I know it sounds crazy, but--if I could only make sense of this feeling you would--it's an itch; one that I can't scratch because I can't reach it. And even if I could, I wouldn't know where to start scratching because I don't know who Mr. Frank is."
"Why is he so important to you!?" Marcy calls back surprised at a seemingly overt dramatized plea.
"Curiosity, I guess." Jack began, "It's just bugging me. So far, no one who works here can give me an answer that isn't contradicted thereafter." By now, he had already filled a mug with coffee for himself. It was starting, Frank was unraveling. "Yeah, and why do I care so much? I don't know," a sip of coffee, "maybe it's because no one here does. How can someone so regular go unnoticed?"
Marcy retorted, "Maybe that's what he wants: to be unnoticed. And maybe the people just respect that."
It was here that Ryan butted in. In the midst of orders and re-fills, he had just enough opening to ask, "What's going on over here?"
Jack returned, "I'll get back to work in a sec, Ryan. Just hold on--"

"Gabe says the rain'll stop soon," Ryan cut in, "I can hold until then." He could hold until then. Eyeing down an empty mug, his calling, he leaves them to their conversation.

Continuing: Jack inquires casually, "Who is he? Marcy, tell me who he is."

"Ok," she agreed, "I'll tell you how I first noticed him. Rather, how he first noticed me."

"It was about 3 months ago, when Tim and I broke up. He dumped me, of course. We had been dating for a year. You know how it was, Jack, don't you? I was a wreck. I'd come here everyday and drink my coffee alone. I was definitely not who I am now...Well, I guess I still do that today," she chuckled, "but you know what I mean. I was a loner."

"It was late and some hipster-freak decided to play that Miles Davis album ya'll have on the juke. Bye Bye Blackbird. I couldn't stand it. Don't get me wrong, I love Miles, especially his cool blues. But when that song started I couldn't bear it. I darted outside there on the bench and cried. Right out there. You see? Right on that bench out there I cried."

"So it just happened to go that this was about the time Frank would normally go out for his smoke. He did come out and he saw me sobbing over there and he sat by me. Jack, I would be lying if I told you I hadn't been afraid. I was scared. Frank is a powerful man; I don't know if you've noticed, but he's got this aura about him. I can't explain..It was dark, remember? And Frank lit up sure enough, giving off just enough light to show his face; that face of his..it's his mouth, the length of it." Marcy shudders, "Yea, he was creepy in the dim light of a cigarette just started."

"He looked at me and says to me just like this: 'Boy troubles? He quit you? You don't know how to handle yourself, don't have anything to do because he isn't there to tell you to do it?' I was just stone quiet; I had stopped crying, just gazing there at him. He says to me, 'You're your own person now, thanks to him; really, thanks to him.'"

"And after that all he stood up and stomped his cigarette out and left me."

Marcy felt like she had just relieved a massive barbell from her shoulders; she felt better from letting it be told. Jack was too caught up with her story that it took him a second to realize that she was done speaking. Thirsty for more, he started up the conversation again:

"And what happened next? Did you talk to him. He talk to you? I mean, you're the only person I know of that Mr. Frank's ever said anything to. At least more than 'sunny-side up.'"

"There's more to tell," Marcy told him with some uninterest, "but it's really nothing much." She could see that Jack needed something more, some closure to the story, so she decided to tell him the rest--all of it.

"Ok. Well, after that I went home, and all I can remember is that it was really late. I fell straight asleep and I dreamt. I dreamt an epiphany. It was like--it's hard to explain. I felt wonderful, and i could feel the wind on my face, as if I were flying. But, you see, the catch is: I couldn't see anything. There weren't any pictures in this dream, just pleasure. That's all I remembered, anyhow, when I woke up."

"The next morning I come here, to the Easy, to talk to Frank. I thanked him, and told him that I appreciated what he said the night before. I offered to buy him coffee, but all he said was, 'No thanks.' At least he listened. Frank's a good listener; that's what I always thought about him. Anyways, I invited him to dinner at my house as a gift of appreciation. I was going to make spaghetti. Frank just wiped his mouth and shook his head and I knew it was rejection. It hurt. He looked at me with a face I have never seen on him before. It was like disapproval beaming straight at me."

"That went on for a bit until he lifted his mug and said, 'When people contend for their liberty, they seldom get anything for their victory but new masters.' He drank and put his mug down with some force; I remember a sip of coffee spilled out when the mug met the table. After that he didn't look at me. He just payed out 10 bucks on the table and got straight up and left."

The rain stops falling.

Jack is squelched. He has only nothing to say and everything to think about. And Marcy is tired and relieved in the same instance.

She concludes: "But, Jack, I still don't get it. That quote--i never really figured out who said it, but I knew it wasn't his--it didn't matter. I'm not that kind of person; I didn't 'contend' for Tim to leave me. I want someone. I need to be a pet. That's just..me."

Jack learned. Marcy dug through her purse and retrieved an envelope, pink. It was sealed and, in fine cursive writing, had Frank's name written on it. She wanted Jack to deliver it.

A Mysterious Name [part 2]

2008-08-21T10:02:00.025-05:00

"I'm sorry... could you repeat that?" He was struggling on his first day. Some might say that "struggling" was a bit of an understatement. He was starting to weigh the pros and cons of being a waiter vs. being a cook. He flashed back to when he was trying not to burn pancakes and trying to flip eggs so the yolks were still intact. It was not pretty. He decided that he was still better off.

"I wanted some hot chocolate, an order of pancakes, and a side of hashbrowns." The lady he was tending to was slightly annoyed now, but she was polite and punctual.

He scribbled down her words frantically, "...hashbrowns..." and he slashed his pen across the pad, underlining it. "Alright, I'll be right back with your hot chocolate." He smiled and walked back behind the front counter. He ripped off the paper on the pad. Instead of attempting the diner lingo, he just clipped the paper up in the opening to the kitchen. He poked his head through the window, "Hey guys I have pancakes and hashbrowns. Thanks."

Chris came up next to him, "Fry two and let the sun shine. A short stack, too." He looked at Jack with an empty stare, "You know, you could at least try." He walked away back towards his section to tend to more customers.

Jack stood there, leaning against the counter for a moment, slightly discouraged. The Easy was just a job to get him through right now.
(man I don't need this right now)
He stared outside the window for a moment. The sun was just above the horizon. Orange stretched across the sky, a few clouds hung, suspended in time.

He started to make hot chocolate, scooping chocolate bits into a thick, brown mug. His eyes wandered to the back of the diner, the corner booth to be exact. His mind wandered...

Mr. Frank... huh... Who is he? He doesn't talk.. doesn't eat with anyone, at least, no one i've seen.. no ring on his left hand, even. Was he married before? Can a guy really live alone like that? Ok. So he seems semi-normal. He eats at the diner! Ok, scratch that, he's a freaking freak of nature. Hm. I guess I don't really know, do I? I wonder if anyone here knows...

"You're making it wrong, ya'know." A voice interrupted Jack's thoughts, bringing him back to reality. Tina, another waitress, was standing next to him now, eyeing him with distaste. She's been working at The Easy for many years now; and she really knows the ins and outs of the place. In her old age, her wisdom was boundless. When she spoke, she would make you feel as if you were nothing; she really is better than you, though. Her white hair was frizzled. Jack just supposed she didn't care much about her looks anymore, but that wasn't really the case.

She once said, "All these characters here," she would begin all of her stories like this, "they're all the same. Once enough of them come through, you'll hear it all, ya'see? Those truckers come by and they'll be willin' to talk to anyone. They'll tell you their stories of being alone for so many hours, all their wives, maybe even some girls they pick up on the road. They don't care who they talk to, they just gotta talk.
Oh yes'suh, you'll get all diff'rent sorts of people down in here. I like it when those teenagers come by. They make me feel young again. They come in here and have their little emotional troubles.. oh boy, that makes me feel young again. You know in my high school years, I was quite a catch. You might not look at me and think that now, but that's what happens with old age, son. I had my share of boys back and in the day. You, Jackie, you getting your share of young girls?"

Tina had been teasing Jack since his first day on the job. He didn't deal with awkward questions that well, and Tina reaped the benefits of his discomfort. Today was no different.

"You're making it wrong, ya'know." Tina walked up to Jack as he was boiling some milk, her smoke-aged voice flowed into his ears.

"Wah?" Jack looked down at the cup, unaware of what he was talking about.

"There's too much chocolate, ya'see? It'll make it too bitter." Tina took the cup from Jack's hands and took some of the chocolate out. "I'll do it for you, honey."

"Uh.. ok.. thanks Tina." Jack was slightly relieved. He actually had no idea what he was doing. He had only watched Chris make hot chocolate once, and the only thing he learned from that one time was that he needed to put some whipped cream on top. "Hey Tina.. You've been working here for a while now, right?"

"Mmhmm, that's right, suh." She nodded and wiped away some chocolate she spilled on the counter with a rag. "Why do ya ask, Jackie-Boy?"

"Well that man, Mr. Frank, who is he?" He moved around to the other side of the counter and sat down at a stool, fiddling with a napkin dispenser.

Tina smiled. "Mr. Frank.. he's a queer character, isn't he? Not too much is known about him, but this is what I heard." She leaned on one elbow over the counter, stirring the milk every once in a while. "He came here about a year ago. Just walked into The Easy one morning, sat down, and ordered his meal. He always orders the same thing for breakfast. It's his usual: two eggs, sunny-side up; a poppyseed bagel with apricot jelly; and coffee, black. He never gets anything else. Every time he comes here.. the same ol' thing. Sometime after he eats here, he has a smoke outside. Every time I see him out there, I say to myself that I'll join him. I haven't done that though, the look in his eyes is just too lonely. Gives me chills sometimes. Well, anyway, when he first came here I believe I heard he used to be on some bomb squad. Apparently his buddies were disarming a bomb and it exploded on them. He wasn't in the room though, and he survived the blast. Maybe he got knocked up in the head a bit. Well since then, he hasn't been the same. Not at all. He just went nuts after that, prolly from the guilt. He divorced his wife, she was bein' beat or something, and he came to this lil' town... dunno too much more about him."

A voice rang out, "Uh... Jack? I had a hot chocolate?"

"Oh! Right.. uh.." He looked to Tina nervously.

"Oh don't worry, Honey. I'll get it right to ya." She told the girl. She turned back to the hot chocolate, "Well Jack, that's just what I heard, ya'see?"

Introduction--The Easy [part 1]

2008-08-19T16:20:00.014-05:00

FADE IN:

INT. THE EASY - MORNING

This coffeehouse/diner is organized like any other--equipped with a bar of wooden craft, the table top (black), and seats each a worn maroon cushion holstered by a steel stool. The tables are like anything common to restaurants; movable, too, as are the wooden chairs. The booths' seating cushions match the maroon of the stools. Jukebox. Everything--the walls, tiled floor, and ceiling--is a variety of dark, warm colors. A hallway leads to single bathrooms, both for men and women. The kitchen looms behind the bar, peering out into the dining area through fogged windows and openings.

All is quiet.

MR. FRANK enters the front (glass) door labeled PUSH and a small bell sounds, notifying the workers of another mouth to feed--more accurately, the first of many mouths, because this diner has just woken up; the start of another business day.

Mr. Frank is middle-aged (late 40's, that is) with dark hair and eyes. He wears glasses and a shaven face, his hair short and nicely kept, combed to the side. He has a wide mouth that gives him a serpentine/frog-like appearance, if caricatured. His figure: tall and just below average build. His aura: curious, strange.

Frank walks towards the back and pauses near the corner booth, his booth, which is currently being wiped clean by RYAN, dark haired, bearded, tall waiter; looks sleepy and lax, age 22. Frank stops short and regards the empty booth.

FRANK

May I sit?

RYAN

(trying to sound chipper through deadpan speech)

It's all yours. Be right back with some coffee, Mr. Frank.

The clock reads 7:03 AM

The clock reads 10:21 AM; Racy, lively music plays from the jukebox.

QUICK CONCISE SHOTS of various angle--food being prepared, eggs cracking, sizzling on the grill; sandwiches being assembled; tables wiped clean; coffee pot snatched from the brewer.

Ryan paces down the room, booths on either side. He caries a plate in his right hand, coffee pot in the left; the camera dolly glides behind him. He serves and gestures to pour coffee.

DOLLY IN to TINA, who rushes to the kitchen side. Freshly cooked breakfast is brought out for her to run to the customer.

CHEF

Order up!

Camera freezes right as Tina grabs the next plate in line--music stops abruptly.

JACK (narration)

This is 'The Easy' in crunch time.

And the young lady you see in the left corner of the frame is Tina, but she's not the head waiter.

CUT TO freeze frame of Ryan pouring coffee for a patron.

JACK (narr.)

Ryan. (a beat)

Ryan is the head waiter. He's the one that hooked me up with my new job.

CUT TO freeze frame of Jack (short brown hair, age 20, apron and cap with 'the easy' logo) frying eggs with difficulty showing in his facial expression.

JACK (narr.)

You see, that's me. Working my old job. Yea...not a good time.

The freeze frame animates and Jack is trying very carefully to remove the fried eggs from the grill via spatula.

Ryan enters the frame, unattentive to Jack's lack of skill; he has a pad and pen in hand and reads out the next order:

RYAN

Alright...I need an Irish turkey, paint it red, and give it one from the alps. A sinker and some moo juice. All hot in a billiard, extra yum yum. And let it walk.

Jack finally wrestles the eggs into the plate. In lieu of his accomplishment, he flips his hat off onto the food station (countertop) and catches his breath. He looks up to Ryan, not understanding.

Jack

(simply) What?

RYAN

(calmly, deadpan) Look, Jack, I don't come back here to listen to any fuss, right? If you got a problem with moo juice try being a waiter--

FREEZE FRAME

JACK (narr.)

So I became a waiter. Plus--

Frame animates once more, skipping a bit, to show that the clip is played from a bit further in the conversation.

RYAN

We got enough cooks. You get tips waiting.

EXT. THE EASY - MORNING

The outside; a parking lot and a tall, neon light sign exclaiming, "the EASY" in magnificent artistry. Nearest to the diner are a few benches and ashtrays.

A lady walking across the parking lot makes an entry to the Easy.

INT. THE EASY - MORNING

Jack is leaning against the bar, employee side. The lady quickly sits on a stool and sets her purse on the bar. She is MARCY; blond, slim and pretty, probably an age of late 20's, but who can tell with women? She looks kind.

Servers and waiters meander through the diner, calls are made from chefs, and people are chattering. Remember, this is crunch time.

Marcy begins with JACK, smiling a bit.

MARCY

Hey.

JACK

Hey, Marcy; will it be the usual?

MARCY

Oh no, I'm just up here to wish you luck on your first day.

JACK

That's good. Because I'm not so sure I'd know just what your usual is.

(narr.) yea, it is my first day as waiter.

MARCY

Well it's an Adam and Eve on a raft, don't forget the hashbrowns. But no, today I'll just have a cup of coffee. (a beat) Initiation right? A straight 24 hours on the waitstaff.

JACK

(nodding) Bummer.

MARCY

Things are going fine so far? Haven't dropped any food yet, have you?

JACK

(nervously) Oh, ha ha. No no, Mrs. Marcy.

MARCY

Well. (she looks to the back of the diner) I'll be down there.

She removes herself from the bar to leave the frame, finding a place to sit towards the back of the diner.

Jack makes his way to the coffee pot, changing out filters, starting a new batch, simply tempering with the stuff. The chatter and noise begins to fade out. Jack brings the pot and a mug to Marcy

JACK (narr.)

Marcy was my first conversation as a waiter. I'd been keeping track of my 'firsts' of the day: first order, first tip. I'd been tallying since the day began the things I liked about the Easy, tallying since 7:03 AM. (beat) When Mr. Frank started us off, as usual.

INT. THE EASY, KITCHEN - CLOSING TIME

It is clear that the room is lit artificially, the night is dark. Employees are cleaning the kitchen countertops.

JACK (narr.)

For me, there was always an air of mystery surrounding Mr. Frank. I have to admit, if it wasn't for this conversation at closing one night I don't think I would have ever noticed him.

Ryan is chatting with another employee, one of the chefs, CHEF.

RYAN

(almost complaining) So he orders the same thing, again. I've waited on him for at least a year now. And he never speaks unless he's ordering. Weird--just a weird dude.

One of the VARIANT WAITSTAFF begins to walk into the conversation, starting a circle of gossip.

VARIANT WAITSTAFF

Nah, man. I heard he served in 'Nam, man. Shell-shocked.

RYAN

(mockingly) 'Nam? Vietnam? Are you f*cking kidding me? He ain't that old, anyone here can tell that.

Jack looks up from buffing the countertops.

Jack

Who was in 'Nam?

RYAN

No one was in 'Nam. Except maybe EARL.

JACK

Well, who are you talking about?

CHEF

Mr. Frank

VARIANT WAITSTAFF

The creepy dude who's always in the corner booth. You know, "man of few words?"

JACK (narr.)

I hadn't known. Well I had, but I hadn't. I hadn't thought about it. Mr. Frank escaped my attention just as he had wanted to.

Another voice speaks out in the background.

EMPLOYEE (O.S)

I think he's deaf.

SLOWLY FADE OUT

JACK (narr.)

After that, Mr. Frank never really seemed the same to me.

FADE TO BLACK

The Project.

2008-08-17T22:55:00.007-05:00

I am really looking foward to this little project. I'm curious as to how our minds will clash, but more importantly, how our minds will make the story flow together and just.. work.

This idea started out with 1Lee as a short movie. I'm glad he accepted my idea of working on this together as a story as opposed to a movie. Of course, in the way that we write the story, it can be easily be turned into a movie. Keep that in mind while you are reading it.

My goal is to try to write in a way so that you can envision the scene how I want you to see it. It's a challenge, and I hope I'm doing it in a good way.. concise and not totally retarded. You be the judge. If you read my posts [I can't say this for 1Lee; I am not sure how he would feel about it] brutally criticize all you can to make it better. Ok well only do that if you feel like it.

But not only is this continuing effort to improve my writing skills, it's also a way for me to see what it's like to collaborate with someone else for something that usually seems like a one person thing. Exploring, combining, and molding ideas into one cohesive story is what this is all about, and I'm excited about how it will turn out.

Will you ever really -talk- to the 'regular?' Will you really know who he is? Does anyone really know?

So read the Foreward to get to know the idea.. and read our story.

Foreword

2008-08-17T21:25:00.005-05:00

The Boo Radley Syndrome (working title) is a collabrication between the two writers no_man and 1Lee.

The idea came from a discussion about freestyle writing as it pertains to two separate authors. This blog will feature a wide variety of...variety; id est, 1Lee may write in screenplay format** just as no_man may write in prose; each man can be expected to act as they would in their normal blog environment, however, any style is available for either writer. In accordance to stylistic differences, the best idea we came up with was to log out a story via blog (with entries for each author*), having each writer tell his story from a separate point of view. This is made possible by structurally arranging the story into small narratives that will amount to a full story, a frame story, if you will.

Wikipedia says--

A frame story (also frame tale, frame narrative, etc.) is a narrative technique whereby a main story is composed, at least in part, for the purpose of organizing a set of shorter stories, each of which is a story within a story

In order to better understand the frame story format, a brief pitch of the Boo Radley Syndrome is given:

A diner is frequented by a man, the 'regular', who carries with him a shroud of mystery. He speaks nothing more than his meal orders and keeps to himself; alternatively, he is generally left alone by patrons and employees. When a new employee (main character) begins work at the diner, suspicion is formed around the 'regular'. The new employee begins to peice together the testimonials of patrons and employees, but when he realizes they don't add up he understands that this mystery may never be answered by secondhand citations. Our main character decides to confront the 'regular' and, once and for all, settle the fascinating mystery.

With this basic synopsis, it is possible for the two writers to switch between testimonials and characters, creating an easier way to change style with each individual patron and employee.

Also, something i would like to touch: The 'regular'

He will be named, so hold your horses.

final words--

the project seems quite interesting; i'm very much excited to work with no_man, and i think it will be neat to see how the stories, coming from 2 different minds, will work together. i will say that it's each man's project equally; we are working half-and-half. additionally, we are both relaxed working together, and we are both on the same page, as it pertains to the project idea; we're on the same level.

I wanted a quote about luck here, but i couldn't find anything good. You see, this is the part where i wish myself luck; but here goes, with a quote i've used already.

"We'll keep our collective fingers crossed." --Chris Stevens

*each writer will be denoted in either the title of the entry or by the posting process of blogger

**the format used will be non-conventionial to normal screenplay format; as to be closer to the style of a prosaic short story, the screenplays will include much more description and underlying feelings; in short, more words.