INT. THE BUBBLE - DAWN
A TV screen channel surfs automatically. The news, fast food ads, cartoons, sports, The Twilight zone (“To Serve Man”), cleaning commercials, the news.
THE PEOPLE
America, do you copy? Nations are bleeding. Cities are drowning. What do you suggest we do? Over.
Radio silence blurs with harsh rain pouring through a surround system.
THE PEOPLE
America, when we pledge allegiance to the flag, God laughs when his name falls from our mouths. “Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do it.” Have you read that verse? Is it something we used to know? America, what do we do when the mirror shows us something we no longer believe in? Is this fraud or freedom? Are we hypocrites or heroes? Over.
The screen glitches and displays what lies outside of iridescence, the end of a needle after it has poked through the thickness of rainbow film: unfiltered catastrophe.
THE PEOPLE
America, do you copy? Over.
Crackling static follows a shrill beep.
AMERICA
(over speakers)
Tell them to learn how to swim, and don’t criticise the crown unless you know how to wear it. Over and out.
Screen cuts to white noise.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
If anyone knows how to paint the globe gold, it would be the United States, wouldn’t it? Fancy things and fantasy. Sort of like the American dream. I love movies. Reality TV, not so much.
(sarcastically)
The Hunger Games series is near and dear to my heart, but thank God none of it is real.
EXT. THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD - EARLY EVENING
Drones whir over the rubble of a crumbled and crumbling city.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
I had one of my worst nightmares last week. I was in the backyard of my great grandmother’s house with my family, waiting for the bombs to fall. Lucky me, though. I woke up.
Excited cheers flick in and out with terror-stricken screams. Urgent prayers rise into the air. Surges of pearly smiles, velvet ropes, confetti, leaflets, fireworks, and missiles.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Hollywood rolls red out for fun, while others cannot escape it. You know, some people don’t need high heels to have crimson soles.
Overlapping questions catapult loudly through continuous camera flashes.
INTERVIEWER (O.S.)
Who are you wearing?
THE PEOPLE
My family. My home. What about you, America? Whose blood are you wearing? How do you make it glimmer? Here we don’t have the privilege of cleaning the scarlett, only smearing it. I’m sick of walking and tripping over my own brothers and sisters. I’m on fire, and no one’s putting it out, only fanning it. How can I convince the globe to care besides collapsing? How can I make myself matter besides melting?
INT. HUGE MANSION - EVENING
Wide windows overlook the Caribbean sea. Indiscernible chatter mashes with clinking glasses. CHILD SERVERS set the table. A reflective crystal chandelier hangs in the centre of the dining room, antique but secure to the ceiling.
NARRATOR (V.O)
Point to where the power is and pray they have the decency to look instead of turning around, instead of absolving themselves of undeniable guilt in light of the “three fingers pointing back,” instead of chopping hands off and asking what the hell the tears are for.
Pairs of polished shoes at the bottom of slacks and cocktail dresses spread about on a plush, luxury rug.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
Swine love rolling in the mud, and they’ll feast on anything. You don’t know America until you have to get on your knees to reach the top. Suck and swallow. I’d rather eat my heart out, though not everyone has a choice, and it’s too bad the wealthy are rich in everything but flavour.
Zoom in past and around legs toward a dried maroon patch.
NARRATOR (V.O.) (CONT’D)
You don’t know America until she punches you in the gut and tells her guests not to worry about the stains on the carpet. “It’s just wine,” she’d say. “Grapes and cranberries make such a mess, but they’re so worth crushing.”
INT. DINER - MIDNIGHT
A thick-accented, PRETTY BLONDE with two FRIENDS as gorgeous as she sits at a scratched counter that’s in desperate need of repainting and laughs over cherry pie. Her Friend accidentally spills his drink and apologises, but makes zero effort to clean it up.
They chat idly and noisily about their trip (all while “mumbling” snide remarks at their TEEN WAITER). New York last month, then Chicago, Las Vegas last week, Los Angeles this week, and Hawaii to conclude.
The Pretty Blonde orders more dessert.
PRETTY BLONDE
(to her Friends, smirking)
In America, you eat the pie. You don’t bake it.
Physical and mental exhaustion has the DINER OWNER (late-40s) in a vice grip. He has a different accent, but just as heavy. He’s been helping the COOKS but has seen and heard everything.
He huffs and takes her order to the counter. Apple this time (the fruits of his labour).
DINER OWNER
(interrupting their conversation)
You’re wrong. In America, you’re allowed to bake it. You’re allowed to plate it.
Swaps their dishes and taps his finger against the stoneware, highlighting what’s left.
But you can only eat the crusts. The filling, you can only have a taste of. You crave things that are yours, but not yours to have.
Purses his lips and shrugs.
It’s fine. As long as you don’t have them. For you? The American dream comes true. Maybe. I don’t know. But for me? The American dream remains a dream.
The Pretty Blonde looks pleasantly surprised. Like she’s been waiting for someone to challenge her.
She rakes her eyes up and down the Diner Owner, gaze catching on the accent mark stamped to his nametag, the collection of spots and specks on his apron he’s earned throughout the night, the “VIDA” tattooed on his knuckles amidst inked skeleton bones.
She’s scrupulous, but not sweet. Who cares? Bombshells in America don’t need to be. They just need to know when to crack.
PRETTY BLONDE
You’re an immigrant.
DINER OWNER
I’m American.
Her Friends lean back and roll their eyes. They’re used to her behaviour. They find it entertaining, but wish they didn’t have to wait forever to see the end result.
PRETTY BLONDE
I suspect no one knows better what it means to be American than an immigrant.
DINER OWNER
What do you think it means to be American?
PRETTY BLONDE
To persevere. I think I would have given up by now. I might have taken a gun and shot myself with it. Only after I shot everyone
else. Take them all down with me. I hear that’s very American as well.
The Diner Owner sighs sharply. He knows better than to provoke, better than to engage, but he did it anyway. It’s fine. His skin is made of iron, and this is nothing new.
There’s nothing she can say.
There’s nothing he can say.
DINER OWNER
You’ve been all around the world, and you don’t know a damn thing about it.
PRETTY BLONDE
(gives him another once-over)
I know who the losers are. I know when to give up.
DINER OWNER
Possibility is too precious to “give up”.
PRETTY BLONDE
(scoffs)
Possibility is not a promise. You want the possibility of a nice life. Of rest. It’s a... crumb. What happens when you die baking a pie you never got to taste? Does that comfort you? Knowing you never gave up and still failed?
DINER OWNER
I don’t fail by dying. I fail by not trying.
PRETTY BLONDE
If the American dream remains a dream, maybe you should keep sleeping.
DINER OWNER
Maybe you should wake up.
The Diner Owner takes their dirty dishes and cutlery to the kitchen. Washes them along with the others in the sink. When he comes back, they’re gone.
The slice of pie is almost as he left it.
Only the crust has been eaten, and there is a hundred-dollar bill soaking in a cup of leftover coke, plastic straw holding it down in the crevices of thawing ice cubes.
EXT. SPUTNIK 2 - DAY
It’s 1957, and SCIENTISTS are getting a cone-shaped spacecraft ready for takeoff.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
America adores her children like France adores a black and white cat, like Russia adores a stray mutt.
LAIKA, a trained dog, is placed in the rocket with a soft kiss and being prepared to launch.
SCIENTIST #1
(over transmitter)
Laika, do you copy? This is your mission: to orbit Earth and die. Let’s see if you can reach the stars. Let’s see if you shine. History will know your name. All you have to do is fly. Humanity's parting kiss is nothing compared to the galaxy’s hug. You’ll go from a barking satellite to unmatched brilliance, like Dezik’s and Lisa’s comets, running after asteroids and meteors in a celestial field, tail wagging through interstellar space. The globe is for spinning, not fetching. There are plenty of other balls in space. Laika, you can chase them all, but you cannot bring them back. Improvement and satisfaction are not the same--neither are guaranteed--and you can crash into a lot of grief pursuing happiness. For the good of mankind, love must be limited. Everything is conditional. That’s why we have collateral damage. It’s not personal. Just politics. Home is a social construct, and ladders are for climbing. If the sky’s the limit, we will not get very far. The whole world is at our fingertips, but we must strive to grasp the sun. Some love is cosmic--extraterrestrial--and, eventually, we might land there. We will calculate the gravity of our actions another day. Laika, science thanks you for your service. Only the greatest soar; the best dogs deserve a pair of wings, and you’ve gained two! We are immensely proud of you. We are sorry you will never know. Laika, do you copy? Over.
THE MILKY WAY
PEACE rests a hand on his hip and pinches the bridge of his nose as he complains to SATURN about his on and off again relationship with EARTH.
PEACE
I just don’t understand why she won’t let me put a ring on it!
Sisters, LIBERTY and JUSTICE, giggle and twirl with their right arms interlocked, a trio of familiar canines running circles around them, tongues out and phantom-like.
LIBERTY
If humans are so enamoured with the moon, why don’t they just marry it?
JUSTICE
Leave it to humans to contaminate places they’ve never even been! At what point does it stop being curiosity and start being a craving, start being corruption?
DEZIK barks. LISA barks.
Dogs don’t need to chase after happiness. The chase is happiness enough.
Justice crouches down in front of a gleaming and panting Laika. Justice nods to where Laika came from: the world, a life.
JUSTICE
(to Laika)
Yours.
Laika whines and pushes forward, snout brushing Justice’s chin. Can’t contain her excitement. Wants to be pet.
JUSTICE (CONT’D)
(scratches behind Laika’s ear)
Should’ve been yours to keep.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Look through a telescope and you will find the innocent scattered across the constellations. If you love something enough to sacrifice it, is that still love?
INT. A THIN-LAYERED BUBBLE - DUSK
No interference colours tint the bubble. It’s almost crystal clear. The TV screen is black.
THE PEOPLE
America, we must learn from our mistakes, not create a market for them. Haven’t you had your fill of martyrs? How many more would you like to monopolise? Over.
Radio silence.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
Tomorrow does not exist if you cannot afford it. The impoverished stick to the pavement, and the leg attached to the foot on their backs swings over a white picket fence. If you want to play the part, look the part. Everything is tailored with precision, and Satan seldom has to squeeze into a senator’s suit.
THE PEOPLE
America, do you copy? Over.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
No one starts a fire to listen to the flames. To stand and watch, maybe. To roast something over. To provide, to desecrate. How much does it cost to burn? How much are you willing to pay? Can you afford it?
Crackling static follows a shrill beep.
AMERICA
When all a man has is his life, to pertish is to profit. Over and out.
A choir of chaos. The People call and cry. Everything is out of tune. Everyone is fighting to be the loudest.
Who wins?
THE CROWN (made of chandelier crystals) slips, but doesn’t fall. Will it?
NARRATOR (V.O.)
No amount of tears can extinguish the flames, but it’s no secret: America would set the rest of the world on fire to keep herself warm.
THE END.
Comments