71. Interstate Deathwish-Eric

• FADE IN


• EXT. INTERSTATE-NIGHT


• Mr. Broker is parked sideways, halfway on the interstate and halfway on the shoulder of the road in a little, red Ford escort. The interstate curves sharply, almost in a compete circle and a ramp wall blocks any line of sight ahead or behind his vehicle. The vehicle's lights are off and a dense layer of fog blankets the area.


• He is sitting in the back seat; his head is leaned back and his eyes are closed. He bites his lip. His hand moves up and down rapidly and his pants are down to his ankles. Light rain pelts the windshield, and soft music is playing.


• Headlights whip past him and car horns are blaring. Vehicles screech and swerve to avoid him. A red truck screeches then hydroplanes toward Mr. Broker's Ford like a speeding bullet.


• EXT. COURT ROOM-DAY


• Mr. Broker sits behind a stand. A black plaque labeled Judge Polinski is fastened to judge's desk. JUDGE POLINSKI, a cotton-white haired man with chain-fastened bifocals holds a sheet of paper. He lifts his bifocals up and looks at the sheet and shakes his head.


• JUDGE POLINSKI
• Son, we don't even have laws for this kind of thing. Never in my forty years have I seen something like this.


• He looks back down at the sheet and then back to Mr. Broker.


• JUDGE POLINSKI
• This Indecent exposure, and reckless endangerment. It's a felony you know.


• Judge Polinksi looks back down at the sheet. He lays it down and takes his bifocals completely off.


• JUDGE POLINSKI
• Are you sucidal...Mr. Broker?


• Mr. Broker nods. The female baliff leans over and whispers to the judge.


• JUDGE POLINSKI
• I don't know why I'm not putting you in prison. I'm suspending your sentence, you'll have six months of in-patient and six months of out-patient therapy. If you fail to report..


• INT. APARTMENT-DUSK


• GWEN, a pretty red-head woman in an O'charlies uniform kisses Mr. Broker goodbye at the doorway. Before she turns to leave he holds up a finger.


• MR. BROKER
• Wait.


• Mr. Broker walks to the coffee table. Pans of fresh pumkin pie crowd the coffee table so much that it can't be seen. He picks up a pan and walks to the kitchen. The counters and table are filled with pans of pumpkin pie as well as the sink.


• He walks with the pan and sets it down on top of another one in the sink. He opens the cabinet under the sink and pulls out Saran wrap. He wraps the pan and walks back to the living room.

Gwen is looking at her watch when he enters. He hands her the pie and she smiles, kissing him once more. He smells her hair. She leaves.

• INT. INTERSTATE-NIGHT


• Gwen is driving in a little white CRX. She turns on the radio. It begins pouring down rain.


• A red truck weaves in and out of the two-lane interstate roughly seven car lengths behind Gwen's vehicle. Horns are honking. The red truck speeds up and rushes past Gwen, clipping the side of the car and spinning her off the interstate into a ditch. A few minutes later an INDOT truck with flashing yellow lights slows down and pulls over to the shoulder of the road.


• Gwen's guts hang out and she is completely covered in blood. Her left arm is hyper-extended and the bone sticks out from her elbow.


• INT. BEDROOM-MORNING


• Mr. Broker shoots awake in his bed, sitting up. He is white and his face is beaded with sweat. Empty pans of pumpkin pie litter the entire bedroom. Several piles are stacked four feet tall.


• EXT. GREENLEAF SALLE PARKING LOT-DAY


• Mr. Broker pulls into the parking lot in the red Escort. A brown and green wood sign reads GREENLEAF SALLE. He exits the car and walks into the building.


• INT. THERAPIST OFFICE-DAY


• One Year Ago


• JOAN, a young woman with short, dark hair and a lazy eye stares at Mr. Broker. Her office is sterile looking, without much decor. Several black and white fish dart back and forth in a gurgling fish tank.


• Mr. Broker sits in a comfortable chair, padded with maroon fabric. A plaque on Joan's desk is engraved with Joan Marshall, Clinical Psychologist. A yellow legal pad lies on her desk next to a manilla folder. She leans forward on her desk and clears her throat.


• JOAN
• Mr. Broker, may I call you Ted?


• Mr. Broker nods.


• JOAN
• Ted, I have a three-year-old daughter and I drive on that interstate every night.


• JOAN
• Why?


• MR. BROKER
• Because I can't afford cable.


• Joan stares him down. She opens the manilla folder and flips through its pages.


• JOAN
• I see this isn't your first tour.


• Mr. Broker sits blankly.


• JOAN
• You're delusional and a harm to others. I can have you committed.


• JOAN
• Is that what you want?


• Mr. Broker shakes his head no.


• JOAN
• You better start coming clean then, what's going on.


• They talk.


• MR. BROKER VO
• She asks me why I do this, but she didn't know Gwen.


• INT. APARTMENT-DAY


• Mr. Broker sits in the kitchen with his sleeve rolled up. he cuts his arms with a pocket knife. There are several old puffy, white scars near the place where he cuts; he begins bleeding. The door opens; he looks up and hides the knife and rolls down his sleeve.


• Gwen walks through the living room in her O'Charlies uniform. Her apron is stained with pesto sauce and her hair is a mess. She carries a plastic container with Tiramisu Pie and hands it to Mr. Broker. He kisses her.


• GWEN
• It was the last piece. I had to hide it 'til the end of my shift.


• MR. BROKER VO
• She was one of a kind, the only woman who would put up with my antics.


• INT. KITCHEN-NIGHT


• Mr. Broker pulls several trays of pumpkin pie from the stove, which smokes profusely. The fire alarm screeches.


• Gwen rolls over in bed and looks at the clock, which reads 3:54 AM. Her work uniform lies on the nightstand. She walks into the kitchen in her robe. Mr. Broker yelps and drops a hot tray from the oven; pumpkin pie splatters on the floor. Gwen stands on a chair to turn off the fire alarm, she slips of the chair and Mr. Broker catches her.


• INT. BATHROOM-NIGHT


• Mr. Broker is in the shower, holding a lit cigarette with one hand and holding Stephen King's It in the other. His arms are dripping with blood. Gwen slowly pulls the shower curtain back and peeks in, waving the cigarette smoke from her face. The fire alarm screeches on. Gwen feigns a smile.


• GWEN
• Honey, I thought you quit doing that.


• GWEN CONT'D
• It's four o'clock in the morning, I have to set up at work this morning.


• MR. BROKER VO
• Yup, she stuck by me through it all until that bastard drunk driver murdered her.


• EXT. INTERSTATE-NIGHT


• Mr. Broker is parked sideways, halfway on the interstate and halfway on the shoulder of the road in a little, red Ford escort. The interstate curves sharply, almost in a compete circle and a ramp wall blocks any line of sight ahead or behind his vehicle. The vehicle's lights are off and a dense layer of fog blankets the area. It rains.


• MR. BROKER VO
• The Russians have their roulette; the Swiss have their William Tell, and the Japanese have their Kamikazes. I have my own little spin on these cathartic games. Think of me as the opposite of a Kamikazi pilot.


• Drivers blare their horns and swerve into the other lane.


• MR. BROKER VO
• I'm hoping by chance the same drunk driver that killed her will run into me, then we can be together again.


• A red truck comes around the curve; Gwen is in the passenger seat next to the male driver. She massages the back of his neck with her left hand; he leans his head back a bit into the massage.


• MR. BROKER VO
• And if all else fails at least it's cheaper than renting a movie. Joan doesn't believe any of this, she said that Gwen divorced me two years ago because she couldn't deal with my schizophrenia.


• The red truck makes its way around the curve, very close to Mr. Broker's Escort. It rains harder. Mr. Broker is leaned back masturbating and listening to The Everly Brothers.


• MR. BROKER VO
• She's just waiting on the judge's approval to put me away for good. But she's just a hater, and I'm not going to let her or anything stop me from being with the woman I love.


• They are around the corner; she still massages his neck and he leans back. He slams on the brakes when he sees the Escort, but it's too late and he smashes into the back of Mr. Broker.


• FADE OUT