FADE IN:
INT. CRAINE'S BUTCHER SHOP – BREAK ROOM
A thin haze of smoke hovers in the small and dimly lit break room. JONAS CRAINE slowly brings a cigarette to his lips with his unsteady left hand. His right hand is stashed deep inside his pocket, burrowing as usual. He gazes at the floor with eye muscles that scrunch tirelessly. Craine is in his mid-40s and he wears the expression of an elderly matador.
A metallic CLANG can be heard off-screen, sounding in five-second intervals. Craine is neither comforted nor bothered by the noise; he merely expects it.
Five seconds pass without a clang. After ten seconds he becomes perturbed and checks the watch on his left hand. Before fifteen seconds he groans, snuffs his cigarette, and hurries through the swinging door. His rushed movements are unnatural; his body moves as if it is confined in a cast of paper mache.
INT. FRONT COUNTER
Slump-shouldered and weary, SCOTT BELDEN stands parallel to the counter, gazing at a butcher knife with a hint of resentment. He shakes his head side-to-side as Craine approaches from behind.
CRAINE: I don't hear any knife-dropping, Scott.
SCOTT: Look, Mr. Craine, can we please just talk this over? I mean--
CRAINE: No, we can't. You know my policy. Every new employee must start his shift with ten
solid minutes of knife-dropping reps.
Scott turns around to face his employer.
SCOTT: It's just...I'm not sure if this is really necessary. I've worked here for over a month and...
CRAINE: It's necessary. Young men such as yourself do reckless things. You need to be cautious. Now drop that knife and don't try to grab it 'til it's lying on the counter.
For a quick beat Scott is torn between compliance and rationale. His cry for rationale prevails, and with exasperation he says...
SCOTT: I've never had the urge to catch a falling knife. Even before I started working here I knew it was a bad idea. I could be doing something more productive like...
CRAINE: Scott.
SCOTT: And when a customer spots me doing this routine I feel like such a—
CRAINE: Scott.
SCOTT: One of my ex-girlfriends came in here once and she snickered at me. I mean, it's just common sense, you know. Who tries to catch a falling knife? Only a total...idiot would—
Like a fiery drill sergeant, Craine lunges to confront Scott. He unleashes his right hand from his pocket and points his finger in Scott's face.
CRAINE: You watch your god-damn mouth, smart-ass!
The butcher's hand trembles. His pinkie is severed at the joint, wrapped in gauze. Scott sees it for the first time. His eyes bulge in bewilderment and he backpedals a few inches. Craine is almost as perplexed by the sight. He considers his severed right pinkie a monstrosity not to be shared with others. With a rare surge of emotion, he tucks his hand back into his pocket and turns away.
CRAINE: Scott, I didn't mean to...
Scott's mind races with possibilities. Still reeling, he gulps and shakes his head.
SCOTT: No, look, Mr. Craine...I'm the one who should be sorry—
CRAINE: I didn't apologize. I just didn't want you to see that.
A pause. A refrigerator buzzes loudly. For a long time the men remain silent.
SCOTT: It's not a big deal. I just didn't know about it.
He inches toward Craine and drops a knife on the counter by the register. Remember that.
SCOTT: (cont'd) You know what, I can do the knife-dropping routine for as long as you want. Everyday. Until you think I'm...ready. I mean, I'm grateful for this job and you're the boss, so if you want me to--
CRAINE: Scott, have you ever seen the movie Cocktail?
SCOTT: What?
CRAINE: The movie Cocktail, starring Tom Cruise. Have you seen it?
SCOTT: Yeah, I think so. He plays a bartender in that one, right?
CRAINE: Yes. Cocktail came out 20 years ago. That was back when I co-owned this shop with a man named Dexter Bloom. We were best friends.
(Beat.)
Business was slow before Cocktail hit theaters—even slower than it is now. Dexter saw the movie. He gave it thumbs-up, and it gave him an idea. Crazy idea. He kept talking my ear off about it. Business couldn't get much worse, so I figured, what the hell? Jesus, listen to me reminisce. I hate reminiscing. Scott, you should never heed the advice of a man who hopes like hell that he's wrong, but if you want to know the cold truths bitter old men keep to themselves...it's no use reminiscing about the best days of your life. Because once that train of thought fades away, you remember what happened that brought on the shit.
The camera follows his wistful, solemn gaze up toward the ceiling.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. CRAINE & BLOOM'S EXOTIC BUTCHER SHOP – FRONT COUNTER
The caption reads “1989.” In the foreground, a youthful and vibrant Craine carves up a thick slice of ham. A nearby stereo blares AC/DC. Craine bobs his head to the upbeat rhythm, not quite in-time but without a hint of self-consciousness. His fluid movements contrast the body language of the middle-aged man he will become. Like most young people, Craine lacks the foresight to picture himself 20 years from now.
DEXTER BLOOM operates the cash register. His smirk reveals a gleam of jack-o-lantern mischief. His movements coincide with the rhythm of the music. He has a habit of cocking his head to the side and delicately scraping his teeth with his tongue. Bloom is a womanizer who plays it with indifference until the moment to pounce arises. And he always knows exactly when to pounce.
A female patron by the name of JOLENE approaches the counter. Judging by her sleek evening gown—which accentuates her taut and desirable figure—you'd think she was attending a stylish nightclub without a date. She comes to Craine & Bloom's not so much to order meat but instead to participate in a game bursting with nervous anticipation that nobody quite knows exactly how to play.
BLOOM: Welcome to Craine & Bloom's Exotic Butcher Shop, miss Jolene. Tell us how to serve you.
JOLENE: Dexter, I'm simply dying for a half-pound bag of Virginia ham. Would you do the honor?
Bloom smirks.
BLOOM: Let's sharpen that blade, Craine.
In one deft motion, he unfastens his belt, yanks it by the buckle and twirls it like a lasso above his head.
Their lovely customer laughs giddily.
Knife in hand, Craine jaunts over, trying to conceal his anxious longing for Jolene. Bloom stretches the belt tightly as his friend drags the blade against it. When the blade has been sufficiently sharpened, Craine drifts toward Jolene and Bloom strides over to the back counter.
CRAINE: Hello, Jolene. I hope you don't mind me saying this, but of all the pretty faces we see at this place, yours is probably--
BLOOM: The lady doesn't have all day, Craine.
On cue, Craine tosses the knife over his shoulder with the frivolity of a Harlem Globetrotter lobbing an alley-oop. Jolene shrieks, but her terror doesn't last long.
Bloom snatches the handle of the blade with nonchalant showmanship, grins, and tends to the ham.
Jolene is a striking display of feminine ambivalence—all at once angered, relieved, and enamored.
JOLENE: You two have some...nerve. Do you know that?
CRAINE: No need to worry. We've practiced that trick and awful-lot.
Within seconds Bloom has carved the ham and zipped it up in a plastic bag. He tosses the order to his friend.
BLOOM: Look alive, Craine. And, this time, don't forget to charge the pretty-faced miss Jolene.
INT. CRAINE'S BUTCHER SHOP – BREAK ROOM
A thin haze of smoke hovers in the small and dimly lit break room. JONAS CRAINE slowly brings a cigarette to his lips with his unsteady left hand. His right hand is stashed deep inside his pocket, burrowing as usual. He gazes at the floor with eye muscles that scrunch tirelessly. Craine is in his mid-40s and he wears the expression of an elderly matador.
A metallic CLANG can be heard off-screen, sounding in five-second intervals. Craine is neither comforted nor bothered by the noise; he merely expects it.
Five seconds pass without a clang. After ten seconds he becomes perturbed and checks the watch on his left hand. Before fifteen seconds he groans, snuffs his cigarette, and hurries through the swinging door. His rushed movements are unnatural; his body moves as if it is confined in a cast of paper mache.
INT. FRONT COUNTER
Slump-shouldered and weary, SCOTT BELDEN stands parallel to the counter, gazing at a butcher knife with a hint of resentment. He shakes his head side-to-side as Craine approaches from behind.
CRAINE: I don't hear any knife-dropping, Scott.
SCOTT: Look, Mr. Craine, can we please just talk this over? I mean--
CRAINE: No, we can't. You know my policy. Every new employee must start his shift with ten
solid minutes of knife-dropping reps.
Scott turns around to face his employer.
SCOTT: It's just...I'm not sure if this is really necessary. I've worked here for over a month and...
CRAINE: It's necessary. Young men such as yourself do reckless things. You need to be cautious. Now drop that knife and don't try to grab it 'til it's lying on the counter.
For a quick beat Scott is torn between compliance and rationale. His cry for rationale prevails, and with exasperation he says...
SCOTT: I've never had the urge to catch a falling knife. Even before I started working here I knew it was a bad idea. I could be doing something more productive like...
CRAINE: Scott.
SCOTT: And when a customer spots me doing this routine I feel like such a—
CRAINE: Scott.
SCOTT: One of my ex-girlfriends came in here once and she snickered at me. I mean, it's just common sense, you know. Who tries to catch a falling knife? Only a total...idiot would—
Like a fiery drill sergeant, Craine lunges to confront Scott. He unleashes his right hand from his pocket and points his finger in Scott's face.
CRAINE: You watch your god-damn mouth, smart-ass!
The butcher's hand trembles. His pinkie is severed at the joint, wrapped in gauze. Scott sees it for the first time. His eyes bulge in bewilderment and he backpedals a few inches. Craine is almost as perplexed by the sight. He considers his severed right pinkie a monstrosity not to be shared with others. With a rare surge of emotion, he tucks his hand back into his pocket and turns away.
CRAINE: Scott, I didn't mean to...
Scott's mind races with possibilities. Still reeling, he gulps and shakes his head.
SCOTT: No, look, Mr. Craine...I'm the one who should be sorry—
CRAINE: I didn't apologize. I just didn't want you to see that.
A pause. A refrigerator buzzes loudly. For a long time the men remain silent.
SCOTT: It's not a big deal. I just didn't know about it.
He inches toward Craine and drops a knife on the counter by the register. Remember that.
SCOTT: (cont'd) You know what, I can do the knife-dropping routine for as long as you want. Everyday. Until you think I'm...ready. I mean, I'm grateful for this job and you're the boss, so if you want me to--
CRAINE: Scott, have you ever seen the movie Cocktail?
SCOTT: What?
CRAINE: The movie Cocktail, starring Tom Cruise. Have you seen it?
SCOTT: Yeah, I think so. He plays a bartender in that one, right?
CRAINE: Yes. Cocktail came out 20 years ago. That was back when I co-owned this shop with a man named Dexter Bloom. We were best friends.
(Beat.)
Business was slow before Cocktail hit theaters—even slower than it is now. Dexter saw the movie. He gave it thumbs-up, and it gave him an idea. Crazy idea. He kept talking my ear off about it. Business couldn't get much worse, so I figured, what the hell? Jesus, listen to me reminisce. I hate reminiscing. Scott, you should never heed the advice of a man who hopes like hell that he's wrong, but if you want to know the cold truths bitter old men keep to themselves...it's no use reminiscing about the best days of your life. Because once that train of thought fades away, you remember what happened that brought on the shit.
The camera follows his wistful, solemn gaze up toward the ceiling.
DISSOLVE TO:
INT. CRAINE & BLOOM'S EXOTIC BUTCHER SHOP – FRONT COUNTER
The caption reads “1989.” In the foreground, a youthful and vibrant Craine carves up a thick slice of ham. A nearby stereo blares AC/DC. Craine bobs his head to the upbeat rhythm, not quite in-time but without a hint of self-consciousness. His fluid movements contrast the body language of the middle-aged man he will become. Like most young people, Craine lacks the foresight to picture himself 20 years from now.
DEXTER BLOOM operates the cash register. His smirk reveals a gleam of jack-o-lantern mischief. His movements coincide with the rhythm of the music. He has a habit of cocking his head to the side and delicately scraping his teeth with his tongue. Bloom is a womanizer who plays it with indifference until the moment to pounce arises. And he always knows exactly when to pounce.
A female patron by the name of JOLENE approaches the counter. Judging by her sleek evening gown—which accentuates her taut and desirable figure—you'd think she was attending a stylish nightclub without a date. She comes to Craine & Bloom's not so much to order meat but instead to participate in a game bursting with nervous anticipation that nobody quite knows exactly how to play.
BLOOM: Welcome to Craine & Bloom's Exotic Butcher Shop, miss Jolene. Tell us how to serve you.
JOLENE: Dexter, I'm simply dying for a half-pound bag of Virginia ham. Would you do the honor?
Bloom smirks.
BLOOM: Let's sharpen that blade, Craine.
In one deft motion, he unfastens his belt, yanks it by the buckle and twirls it like a lasso above his head.
Their lovely customer laughs giddily.
Knife in hand, Craine jaunts over, trying to conceal his anxious longing for Jolene. Bloom stretches the belt tightly as his friend drags the blade against it. When the blade has been sufficiently sharpened, Craine drifts toward Jolene and Bloom strides over to the back counter.
CRAINE: Hello, Jolene. I hope you don't mind me saying this, but of all the pretty faces we see at this place, yours is probably--
BLOOM: The lady doesn't have all day, Craine.
On cue, Craine tosses the knife over his shoulder with the frivolity of a Harlem Globetrotter lobbing an alley-oop. Jolene shrieks, but her terror doesn't last long.
Bloom snatches the handle of the blade with nonchalant showmanship, grins, and tends to the ham.
Jolene is a striking display of feminine ambivalence—all at once angered, relieved, and enamored.
JOLENE: You two have some...nerve. Do you know that?
CRAINE: No need to worry. We've practiced that trick and awful-lot.
Within seconds Bloom has carved the ham and zipped it up in a plastic bag. He tosses the order to his friend.
BLOOM: Look alive, Craine. And, this time, don't forget to charge the pretty-faced miss Jolene.
Craine half-glares backward, then begins to total Jolene's order on the register.
JOLENE: Oh, not so fast. Additionally, I am also just dying for some...
She tilts her head sideways and locks into Craine's gaze, dabbling in an offbeat manner of eye-contact. She searches her mind, without success, for another type of meat.
JOLENE: Some more Virginia ham, please.
She tilts her head sideways and locks into Craine's gaze, dabbling in an offbeat manner of eye-contact. She searches her mind, without success, for another type of meat.
JOLENE: Some more Virginia ham, please.
She smiles and twists the bottom strands of her shoulder-length hair.
BLOOM: Fair enough. Craine, what do you say we do this order in “Spectacular Fashion”?
CRAINE: “Spectacular Fashion” is too risky.
BLOOM: Now is the perfect time for “Spectacular Fashion.”
His cool gaze darts at Jolene and then returns to Craine.
CRAINE: We've only done “Spectacular Fashion” a few times, and that was with plastic knives.
BLOOM: Well, you can't carve up a ham with plastic knives, now can you?
Bloom steps toward the register and places the knife on the counter. Most of the sharp end hangs above the floor.
Craine looks at Jolene. Her lips pucker inward and she offers a lemony smile. She is intrigued but offers no hint of persuasion. Craine sighs deeply.
CRAINE: Another half-pound bag of Virginia ham. This one in... “Spectacular Fashion.”
Jolene's puckered smile reveals pearly teeth. Bloom sidles up parallel to the counter, three feet away from the knife. He bends his knees in sort of a karate pose and waits stolidly for the signal from Craine.
Craine stretches and strains his lips in all directions to conceal the fact that they are quavering. He clears his throat, sniffs his nose like a cocaine addict, and at last, nods his head.
With that, Bloom jack-knifes his leg as high as he can without pulling a hamstring, shifts his foot a few inches closer to the counter, and drops it down swiftly on the blade.
CLOSE-UP on Craine, whose eyes bulge in trepidation. His arm reaches above him where the camera can't see. A ghastly slashing noise is heard and his bulging eyes expand to maximum capacity. He bellows a scream in bold, capital letters, followed by a dozen exclamation marks.
Shouts of panic and concerned tremors are heard from Bloom and Jolene. The camera drifts upward slowly, catatonic and unwilling to absorb the gruesome sight.
JOLENE (off-screen): Oh, God no! Jonas, are you all right?
CRAINE (O.S.): My PINKY!
BLOOM (O.S.): Jesus, I don't believe this. Put some pressure on it, man. Wrap it tight and we'll call an ambulance. Here, let me help.
CRAINE (O.S.): Get the hell away from me!
JOLENE (O.S.): He's right, Jonas. Please, just let us...
CRAINE (O.S.): Shut up! The both of you, just...go away and let me bleed in peace. Let me bleed in “Spectacular Fashion!”
INT. CRAINE BUTCHER SHOP – FRONT COUNTER
The camera descends on Craine's middle-aged face. He is emotionally weary, but in his eyes there is a dim flash of catharsis.
CRAINE: Bloom and I haven't worked together since. I fired him and told him to take his “Exotic” shenanigans with him. We haven't spoken for almost two decades now.
SCOTT: Wow. Two decades. And what about Jol--
CRAINE: No.
A customer walks through the entrance. The man used to smirk because he thought only fools took life seriously. Now he smirks with humility at the realization that he was mistaken. He has not lost hope, however. The man's name is of course Dexter Bloom. He stands just past the threshold and gazes down. Not knowing what to do next, he thumbs the gray stubble of his chin.
It's all too much for Craine.
CRAINE: Get out.
BLOOM: Almost twenty years apart. I don't blame you for mistaking me for a hobo.
CRAINE: Don't bullshit me, Bloom. Just get out.
BLOOM: I can't do that, Craine, and I'll tell you why. I don't have too many friends out there. I don't have much of a life, either. Things have been rotten for me, and I think you can relate. I just figured...it could only do me some good to shoot the shit with my friend.
CRAINE: We're not friends. Please leave.
Bloom again lowers his gaze and bobs his head in a somber rhythm. His sorrow does not have a short memory, but he wants to convince his friend otherwise.
BLOOM: That one hurt, Craine. Even so, I'm gonna back there and shake your hand. If there's a conflict of interest, so be it.
With youthful pep, he hops over the counter. His right foot almost comes down on the blade of a knife that points like the needle of a compass toward Scott.
CRAINE: Bloom, if you take one step closer, I swear to God, I'm going to--
SCOTT: Now, just settle down, Mr. Craine.
Bloom takes a step forward.
BLOOM: Listen to the kid.
Craine yanks his right hand from his pocket and thrusts it savagely into Bloom's chest. The wayward friend reels backward, flailing his arms. As he falls to his butt, his hand comes down on the blade. The knife is launched end-over-end in a perilous arc.
CLOSE-UP on Scott, paralyzed by gaping consternation and a flash of terror. The camera zoom targets his face, which glimmers from the revolving glint cast by the blade. Another bloody catastrophe seems imminent in Craine's Butcher Shop, until a hand snatches the twirling projectile by the handle.
The hand belongs to belongs to Craine, naturally. He has not been emboldened by his act of heroism. His trembling lips, quavering hands, and dreadful expression convey the plight of a man who has accidentally locked himself in a freezer.
BLOOM: Jesus, kid, are you—you're okay, right? I'm sorry about that. It was just...
Craine's demeanor thaws enough to permit him a few words.
CRAINE: It was an accident. No harm done.
He inspects his right hand, strains with some success in steadying his nerves, and marvels at how tightly he can clutch the knife's handle with just three fingers and a thumb.
CRAINE: No real harm done.
For a few silent seconds, Bloom grins with unspoken bliss.
BLOOM: That was a helluva snag, Craine.
CRAINE: Thank you, Bloom. Thank you.
The door swings open once more to reveal Jolene. She removes her Jackie-O sunglasses to reveal a few wrinkles at the height of both cheekbones, skinny trenches that middle-age has dug into her soft flesh. But these wrinkles make eye contact all the more imperative and profound; a mere inches above these tiny imperfections she has to offer the same dazzling green eyes that always brought to Craine's mind the image of a sour-apple sucker held up to the sun. She approaches the counter.
Craine manages a timorous laugh and fidgets at the sight of her. He glares at Bloom, who shrugs pleasantly.
BLOOM: I told you I don't have too many friends out there, so you can't blame a guy for revisiting his past when he gets lonely. Miss Jolene is really more of an old acquaintance, though. It's a shame: she never dug me the way she dug you.
Jolene smiles and summons a display of youthful adoration.
JOLENE: Digs might be a more appropriate verb than dug. It seems we're all in the habit of referring to things in the past tense.
Timid but not ashamed, Craine returns her smile.
JOLENE: Say, by any chance, are you two open for business?
SCOTT: Actually, we stopped serving customers a few minutes ago, ma'am.
BLOOM: She was talking to me and Craine, kid. You really know how to ruin a moment, don't you?
CRAINE: Ease up, Bloom.
(To Scott) It's only 5:02. There are exceptions to virtually every rule, my boy. You can hit the road early today.
Scott nods and departs quickly. As he darts past Jolene on his way out the door, she covers her mouth to conceal her snickering.
Craine smiles at the blade and sets it on the counter before turning to his friend.
CRAINE: As for the two of us, it seems our work is not yet finished.
He offers his right hand with steady assurance. Bloom blinks away tears as the two men shake hands.
FADE OUT:
CRAINE: “Spectacular Fashion” is too risky.
BLOOM: Now is the perfect time for “Spectacular Fashion.”
His cool gaze darts at Jolene and then returns to Craine.
CRAINE: We've only done “Spectacular Fashion” a few times, and that was with plastic knives.
BLOOM: Well, you can't carve up a ham with plastic knives, now can you?
Bloom steps toward the register and places the knife on the counter. Most of the sharp end hangs above the floor.
Craine looks at Jolene. Her lips pucker inward and she offers a lemony smile. She is intrigued but offers no hint of persuasion. Craine sighs deeply.
CRAINE: Another half-pound bag of Virginia ham. This one in... “Spectacular Fashion.”
Jolene's puckered smile reveals pearly teeth. Bloom sidles up parallel to the counter, three feet away from the knife. He bends his knees in sort of a karate pose and waits stolidly for the signal from Craine.
Craine stretches and strains his lips in all directions to conceal the fact that they are quavering. He clears his throat, sniffs his nose like a cocaine addict, and at last, nods his head.
With that, Bloom jack-knifes his leg as high as he can without pulling a hamstring, shifts his foot a few inches closer to the counter, and drops it down swiftly on the blade.
CLOSE-UP on Craine, whose eyes bulge in trepidation. His arm reaches above him where the camera can't see. A ghastly slashing noise is heard and his bulging eyes expand to maximum capacity. He bellows a scream in bold, capital letters, followed by a dozen exclamation marks.
Shouts of panic and concerned tremors are heard from Bloom and Jolene. The camera drifts upward slowly, catatonic and unwilling to absorb the gruesome sight.
JOLENE (off-screen): Oh, God no! Jonas, are you all right?
CRAINE (O.S.): My PINKY!
BLOOM (O.S.): Jesus, I don't believe this. Put some pressure on it, man. Wrap it tight and we'll call an ambulance. Here, let me help.
CRAINE (O.S.): Get the hell away from me!
JOLENE (O.S.): He's right, Jonas. Please, just let us...
CRAINE (O.S.): Shut up! The both of you, just...go away and let me bleed in peace. Let me bleed in “Spectacular Fashion!”
INT. CRAINE BUTCHER SHOP – FRONT COUNTER
The camera descends on Craine's middle-aged face. He is emotionally weary, but in his eyes there is a dim flash of catharsis.
CRAINE: Bloom and I haven't worked together since. I fired him and told him to take his “Exotic” shenanigans with him. We haven't spoken for almost two decades now.
SCOTT: Wow. Two decades. And what about Jol--
CRAINE: No.
A customer walks through the entrance. The man used to smirk because he thought only fools took life seriously. Now he smirks with humility at the realization that he was mistaken. He has not lost hope, however. The man's name is of course Dexter Bloom. He stands just past the threshold and gazes down. Not knowing what to do next, he thumbs the gray stubble of his chin.
It's all too much for Craine.
CRAINE: Get out.
BLOOM: Almost twenty years apart. I don't blame you for mistaking me for a hobo.
CRAINE: Don't bullshit me, Bloom. Just get out.
BLOOM: I can't do that, Craine, and I'll tell you why. I don't have too many friends out there. I don't have much of a life, either. Things have been rotten for me, and I think you can relate. I just figured...it could only do me some good to shoot the shit with my friend.
CRAINE: We're not friends. Please leave.
Bloom again lowers his gaze and bobs his head in a somber rhythm. His sorrow does not have a short memory, but he wants to convince his friend otherwise.
BLOOM: That one hurt, Craine. Even so, I'm gonna back there and shake your hand. If there's a conflict of interest, so be it.
With youthful pep, he hops over the counter. His right foot almost comes down on the blade of a knife that points like the needle of a compass toward Scott.
CRAINE: Bloom, if you take one step closer, I swear to God, I'm going to--
SCOTT: Now, just settle down, Mr. Craine.
Bloom takes a step forward.
BLOOM: Listen to the kid.
Craine yanks his right hand from his pocket and thrusts it savagely into Bloom's chest. The wayward friend reels backward, flailing his arms. As he falls to his butt, his hand comes down on the blade. The knife is launched end-over-end in a perilous arc.
CLOSE-UP on Scott, paralyzed by gaping consternation and a flash of terror. The camera zoom targets his face, which glimmers from the revolving glint cast by the blade. Another bloody catastrophe seems imminent in Craine's Butcher Shop, until a hand snatches the twirling projectile by the handle.
The hand belongs to belongs to Craine, naturally. He has not been emboldened by his act of heroism. His trembling lips, quavering hands, and dreadful expression convey the plight of a man who has accidentally locked himself in a freezer.
BLOOM: Jesus, kid, are you—you're okay, right? I'm sorry about that. It was just...
Craine's demeanor thaws enough to permit him a few words.
CRAINE: It was an accident. No harm done.
He inspects his right hand, strains with some success in steadying his nerves, and marvels at how tightly he can clutch the knife's handle with just three fingers and a thumb.
CRAINE: No real harm done.
For a few silent seconds, Bloom grins with unspoken bliss.
BLOOM: That was a helluva snag, Craine.
CRAINE: Thank you, Bloom. Thank you.
The door swings open once more to reveal Jolene. She removes her Jackie-O sunglasses to reveal a few wrinkles at the height of both cheekbones, skinny trenches that middle-age has dug into her soft flesh. But these wrinkles make eye contact all the more imperative and profound; a mere inches above these tiny imperfections she has to offer the same dazzling green eyes that always brought to Craine's mind the image of a sour-apple sucker held up to the sun. She approaches the counter.
Craine manages a timorous laugh and fidgets at the sight of her. He glares at Bloom, who shrugs pleasantly.
BLOOM: I told you I don't have too many friends out there, so you can't blame a guy for revisiting his past when he gets lonely. Miss Jolene is really more of an old acquaintance, though. It's a shame: she never dug me the way she dug you.
Jolene smiles and summons a display of youthful adoration.
JOLENE: Digs might be a more appropriate verb than dug. It seems we're all in the habit of referring to things in the past tense.
Timid but not ashamed, Craine returns her smile.
JOLENE: Say, by any chance, are you two open for business?
SCOTT: Actually, we stopped serving customers a few minutes ago, ma'am.
BLOOM: She was talking to me and Craine, kid. You really know how to ruin a moment, don't you?
CRAINE: Ease up, Bloom.
(To Scott) It's only 5:02. There are exceptions to virtually every rule, my boy. You can hit the road early today.
Scott nods and departs quickly. As he darts past Jolene on his way out the door, she covers her mouth to conceal her snickering.
Craine smiles at the blade and sets it on the counter before turning to his friend.
CRAINE: As for the two of us, it seems our work is not yet finished.
He offers his right hand with steady assurance. Bloom blinks away tears as the two men shake hands.
FADE OUT:
