Casual Friday

INT. OFFICE

JULIE works inside her cubicle, typing on the computer and smiling contently. Instead of formal attire, she wears a pink t-shirt and sweatpants. Her boss KEITH approaches from behind and softly raps on the wall of her cubicle. He is a stout, cordial man with a beard, clad in a black tuxedo shirt. Julie swivels her chair to face him and beholds his gaudy clothing.

JULIE: Oh, Keith, that shirt is hysterical.

Keith throws up his hands and wiggles his head, nearly spilling some drops from his coffee mug as he does so.

KEITH: Casual Friday!

Julie caresses her cozy sweatpants.

JULIE: It certainly is one of the perks. My boss at the St. Louis branch would never allow sweatpants in the workplace.

KEITH: Oh, the nerve of that fascist. Lord knows distributing Fanny-Packs is serious business, but our philosophy is that if we didn't grant our workers a fun reprieve once a week, this place would turn into an unpleasant nut-house.

Julie grabs her lunch bag and stands up.

JULIE: That is such a refreshing attitude. Excuse me, I'm going to punch out for my lunch break.

KEITH: The heck you are! On Casual Friday, we kick all those strict policies right out the window. You sit back down and enjoy that meal. And make some cash while you're at it, kiddo.

JULIE: Wow. Thank you so much.

Before sitting back down, she throws up her hands and wiggles her head in playful mimicry of her boss.

JULIE: Casual Friday!

KEITH: Casual Friday!

STEVE walks into frame behind Keith, dressed like a member of the Sex Pistols. A necktie dangles from his zipper and he wears a trucker hat with a crude slogan stitched into it. He spots the apple Julie pulls from her lunch bag.

STEVE: Hey, new girl, will you gimme that apple?

JULIE: Uh...sure thing, Steve. I brought enough to share some. Savor the flavor; it's ripe and delicious.

STEVE: (accepting apple) Oh, I'm not gonna eat it. I'm not hungry. But I've got a hunch that'll change in about twenty minutes, if you catch my drift.

He laughs and nudges Keith.

STEVE: Hey boss, you got cigarettes, right?

Keith nods and produces a pack.

KEITH: Here you go. Just try not to light up underneath a smoke detector like you did last Friday.

STEVE: I won't. I just need to roll up some of the aluminum foil in here.

KEITH: Say, can you have those reports on my desk before four o'clock?

STEVE: I'll have those precious reports on your desk when I'm damn good and ready. How does that sound?

KEITH: What? How dare you speak to me that way!

STEVE: Casual Friday!

Those magic words placate the boss. All is forgiven as Steve darts away.

KEITH: God bless that knucklehead!

JULIE: (fazed) Well, that was certainly...bold of him.

KEITH: Yes, ma'am. On Casual Friday, the jesting is not always for the faint of heart. Steve in particular doesn't pull any punches. Last Friday he emptied a garbage can over my head while I was sitting on the toilet in the men's bathroom.

JULIE: What an awful thing to do!

KEITH: Tell me about it. Monday through Thursday I'd have fired him on the spot.

Keith takes a flask from his pocket and empties it into his coffee mug.

JULIE: What are you drinking? Is that...is that booze?

KEITH: No. Well, not entirely. I'm mixing it with cola.

A flush-faced and shirtless JEREMY enters the scene. On his bare chest are smears of lipstick. He holds a copied document in his hands.

JEREMY: Boss, I'm sorry you're not sitting down. I'm afraid I have some rather serious news to deliver. A jumbo Fanny-Pack that was advertised as “100% suffocation-proof” took the lives of ten handicapped boys yesterday. The grieving families are all threatening lawsuits and...well, the whole mess is detailed in this document.

Suddenly queasy, Keith accepts the copy face-down. Julie likewise shows grave concern. Keith turns the copy upright and bursts into relieved laughter.

KEITH: Wrongful death lawsuits, he says! Check it out, Julie: It's just a copy of a woman's bare ass!

Keith proudly displays the picture to Julie, who is not amused.

JEREMY: Casual Friday!

KEITH: You scoundrel!

JEREMY: You know it. Okay, enough kidding around, boss. Listen, Sue the secretary has been giving me the green light all day long. Do you have a rubber?

KEITH: Oh, of course. You got it, Jeremy.

He reaches in his other pocket for a condom and hands it to Keith.

Julie exhales with a righteous shudder.

JULIE: You're giving him a—What is wrong with you?

Jeremy takes offense to this question.

JEREMY: “What the hell is wrong with me?” I don't want to get Sue the secretary pregnant, okay? How is that wrong?

Keith delicately points to a conspicuous sore on the corner of Jeremy's mouth.

KEITH: Yeah, plus you've got that...

JEREMY: Yeah! (points to sore) Exhibit B. In the case of why I asked my boss for a condom.
With that he storms out of view.

JULIE: Keith. You're my employer and I respect that, but the things you allow on Casual Friday go far beyond—

Her lecture is interrupted by loud reggae music blaring from Steve's cubicle. Furious, she stands atop her chair and inspects over the dividing wall. The sight she beholds makes her even more irritated. She returns to her seat and addresses her boss.

JULIE: One of your employees is smoking pot out of an apple.

KEITH: He's smoking pot out of an apple? That's absurd! I told him last week he could borrow my pipe.

JULIE: I thought all employees were subject to random drug tests.

KEITH: That's true. Chuck is in charge of that, but he's only here once a week.

CHUCK strolls by, his attention focused on a Gameboy.

CHUCK: (groans) Enough of the square pieces; I need a damn long piece to get out of this clusterfuck!

JULIE: Keith, I think you're a bit confused about the definition of the word “casual.”

KEITH: What do you mean? “Casual” just entails all the things you'd do in the privacy of your own home that aren't acceptable in certain public places—like work, for example.

JULIE: This is insane. You are encouraging...decadence in the workplace, which is by no means the same thing as casual.

KEITH: (snorts) That's unfair on two levels. First off, you've got no right to scold me just because you don't appreciate the fun perks of Casual Friday. And secondly, I don't even know what "decadence" means, sister.

JULIE: Don't call me “sister.”

KEITH: It's Casual Friday; just be glad I didn't call you a bitch.

Julie is on the verge of an eruption when the wall of her cubicle is rattled in loud repetitions. She stands atop her chair and inspects the ruckus coming from the adjacent cubicle. She is appalled by what she sees. Her head lurches back. With subdued rage, she glowers at Keith.

JULIE: (icy and deliberate) Jeremy and Sue the Secretary are having sex in his cubicle.

KEITH: No way!

He hops on top of Julie's desk and peers down intently. Julie remains standing, in a near-paralyzed stupor.

JULIE: Having sex in an office, top of a desk, in plain view of others, while you should be working, is, to say the least, inappropriate. And it should be grounds for termination.

KEITH: Julie, I am in total agreement with you. This type of lewd behavior is unacceptable...

Julie releases a big sigh of validation and nods eagerly.

KEITH: ...On Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays.

She hangs her head and smears her face with her hand, dejected and stupefied.

Keith offers her the concoction in his coffee mug.

KEITH: You want a taste?

She takes the mug, tilts the handle, and chugs down the last drop.

FADE OUT:

KICK HIS ASS!

The movie “Fight Club” has its merits. Brad Pitt and Edward Norton deliver exceptional performances that boast bad-ass intensity. Much of the film is shot in a way that is vivid and striking, in particular the scenes that portray acts of violence. The probes into the mindsets of psychologically besieged, deviant men is interesting.

But that's where my praise of “Fight Club” is just about extinguished. It's a clichéd term, but the Moral of the Story really does matter a great deal. At the conclusion of “Fight Club,” the Moral of the Story that author Chuck Palahniuk and director David Fincher leave the audience with is this: Man's purpose in the world is to beat the living shit out of each other and destroy everything. Women, as an afterthought, really have no choice but to acquiesce to the bone-headed destruction perpetrated by man. Bring on the downfall of civilization!

The message offered by “Fight Club” is one of nihilistic rubbish. Meritorious acting and cinematography are not enough to salvage a movie when the message is so poor. Walter Sobchak, best pal of Jeff “The Dude” Lebowski, had it right in his contention that nihilists are even worse than Nazis. At least Nazis have the courage to believe in SOMETHING, however amoral, despicable, and misguided it may be.

And so it is with some reluctance, considering my opinion of “Fight Club,” that I present an incisive quote from Tyler Durden as a sort of catalyst for this essay. Tyler Durden, if you don't know, is the manifestation of the main character's split personality. Evidently he was induced by the effects of insomnia. Fair enough, I guess.

Tyler Durden poses the question, “How much do you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?”

This essay deals with what I learned in the wake of a heinous fracas outside of a bar. I'm convinced that the Moral of the Story here, cryptic though it may be, is more meaningful than that offered by “Fight Club.”

****

The rest of this essay is featured in my book, which is titled "There Will be Blog." It's okay with me if you want to order a copy.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

Sunday Night: A Prose Translation

*I'd like to introduce a ballad into the set-list of the blog. It's an oldie, a prose translation assigned in a Poetry class I took in a different lifetime. The inspiration is a poem by an incredible author named Raymond Carver. His cigarette has long been snuffed, but his smoke continues to rise from the ashtray.

From writing I have learned to battle the tedium of a Sunday Night. I catch stale things and make them scream, dragging them into the light. I prefer it when inspiration finds me, but I can also bend it to my will.

The rain splatters lazily against the window, tapping a cadence like a jazz drummer fighting sedation.

Defeated on the couch, I watch the cinder of my cigarette expand to a flimsy length. Not ten feet from this couch rests an old ceramic ashtray atop a dusty nightstand. For a second, I glare at it, my fingers spread open—beckoning—arm outstretched, channeling in vain a Jedi’s telekinetic retrieval trick. On Sunday nights, anything outside of an arms-length away makes you desperate for superhuman powers. The shackles of comfort.

Overhead, the floorboards vibrate in my daughter’s room, muffling the crunch coming from her stereo. Every last wooden squeak piques my paranoia.

I consider the gray mini-van ticking in the driveway, its siding paneled like an Irish living room, and that coveted red Ferrari idling somewhere past the next horizon.

I’m jarred from that thought by noise in the noise. It’s the sound of a glass stacked at the top of a fragile mound in the sink. Ice cubes and impaled olives weigh it down. It shrieks its way to the base of the pyramid. Glasses scatter like bowling pins. My wife backpedals, grinning impishly. She holds an unsteady finger to her lips and whispers “sshh” to no one in particular. 

So there. It’s all useful in some way. Nothing is trivial. I’m grateful for this. I need all these things to fill the void.

Bad Luck

In an effort to console me, a psychiatrist once told me that much of what I consider flaws trace back to mere bad luck. I've been medically diagnosed with bad luck and I still play poker on a weekly basis, which is about as reckless and foolish as a trapeze artist diagnosed with vertigo insisting he doesn't need a net.

I said to the doctor: “To hell with your diagnosis. I'm gonna beat the odds, man!”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Oh, yeah? Fifty bucks says you don't.”

“You're on, Dr. Fucker!” I said, and dug for my wallet.

And so we rolled a game of dice on the plush carpet in his office. I rolled five straight snake-eyes that he matched by rattling off sevens—astoundingly with just one die on three occasions.

Fondling his newly won wad of cash, he chuckled snidely. But once he detected my fuming and dejected disposition, his devilish grin straightened—somewhere between reproach and compassion—and he said to me...

“There. Now do you see the adverse consequences of your compulsive behavior?”
My face colored like a bloody clown shoe, I pried my tightly pinched lips apart to mutter a simple response.

“No.”

The doctor's hands collided elatedly.

“Great! Double or nothing, then, chump. You game?”

I screamed: “Make it triple or nothing, asshole!”

Vampire Fight

*Note on the picture above: This may appear to be a fight between a bear and a vampire, but the vampire on the left is merely wearing a bear costume. The other vampire's bulging right forearm is obstructing your view of the zipper.

Months ago I watched the TNT original movie “The Librarian: Curse of the Judas Chalice.” It was shortly after Thanksgiving, I believe, which gave me an excuse to watch lame television with my parents.

“The Librarian” depicts the science-fiction adventures of a witty scholar who vacations in New Orleans where he encounters a plot-line that's basically “Indiana Jones” meets “The Da Vinci Code,” with a special effects-budget funded by quarters raided from a ski-ball machine at the Planet Hollywood location in Atlanta. The main character, played by E.R. alum Noah Wyle, shares the wry cleverness of Indiana Jones, but unlike Indy, he lacks prowess in both hand-to-hand and whip-to-sword combat. The doctor turned librarian relies on a seductive French vampire chick to save him from the attacks of ex-KGB henchmen. Whereas Indy's punches resounded like the THWACKS of propeller blades when a helicopter crashes sideways into the ocean, the Librarian couldn't punch his way through a paper bag.

Comparisons to Robert Langdon from “The Da Vinci Code” would only slow the momentum of this essay, and besides, the case could be made that the Librarian is a more appealing hero than his counterpart, the Harvard-educated symbologist with greasy-skunk hair.

Anyway: “The Librarian” climaxes with an airborne tussle between Mademoiselle Vampire and Prince Vlad Dracula in a New Orleans bayou; all the while the Librarian is busy twiddling his thumbs, shin-deep in a hurricane-ravaged puddle of his own urine. As the vampires grappled with each other, vanishing and then reappearing twenty feet in the air and exchanging supernaturally charged punches, my brain was inundated with consternated questions about the nature of a vampire fight.

When two vampires are engaged in battle, are they determined to sink their teeth into their rival's throat, or to plunge a stake into the other's heart? Vampires kill by chomping throats, but they are killed by a stake through the heart. The paradoxical question is: When vampires fight, are they driven by their instinct for killing, or driven by the instinct to kill their opponent? Are they concerned with the only way they know how to slay, or are they concerned with the only way to slay their opponent? For my money, a Vampire Fight is a real mind-fuck of a stalemate.

***

"Vampire Fight" is one of 40 comedic essays included in my book. If you'd like to order a copy of "There Will be Blog," I'm cool with that.

www.xlibris.com/NickOlig.html

Introduction to "Butcher Shop"

“I've been reading a lot of scripts lately. You know, it's a lot cheaper than going to the movies.”

Those are the words of Troy McClure, the vain and callow B-movie star from that cartoon program that has been the centerpiece of far too many of the conversations I've participated in.*

The canary-skinned star of Leper in the Backfield was right: Scripts are indeed cheaper than movies. The first draft of “Craine & Bloom's” was written for a Cinema Production class I took in college. As the shooting date approached, doubts crept in that the story was too long and elaborate to fit into the limited amount of shooting time my group was allotted. I decided to write a different script for filming, one that would be simpler, more manageable, and neophyte-friendly.

Plan B for the big Cinema Production project was a disaster called “Monster in the Attic.” It was made all the more disappointing by the absence of both a monster and an attic. The plot could be described in one of two ways. 1. A dopey heavy metal musician writes and performs a song about his roommate and his girlfriend being terrorized by a savage critter in her apartment. 2. Never mind.

I sang a Capella for a solid minute wearing a shaggy wig and a black Pantera shirt. The lyrics, which are familiar to about one-third of the people who occasionally visit Fistpumps, are as follows:

I don't mean to create panic/ And I'd hate to start some static
But there's fear in my heart/ 'Cause there's a monster in the attic
Monster in the attic/ You'll lose control of your bladder
Monster in the attic/ We've got knives but it doesn't matter
Monster in the attic/ It's come to feast on your soul
Monster in the attic/ Could be a cat, but I think it's a troll
Good gracious, it sounds Hellacious**/ Its breeding ground is so spacious
Could be a wolverine or maybe a demon/ One thing you know: that creature ain't leavin'
Monster in the attic/ You're gonna crap your pants
Monster in the attic/ You wanna kill it but you can't
Monster in the attic/ Its teeth can bite through steel
Monster in the attic/ Your wounds will never heal

Don't get me wrong: I'm proud of the lyrics to “Monster in the Attic.” It's just that I realize the short film experience would've been much less excruciating had I simply read the lyrics in front of the camera and quit while I was ahead. No characters, dialogue, or script necessary.

In Cinema Production class I wrote a script for a bad short film that never should have been produced and a (potentially) good short film that should have been produced but wasn't. Most people blog to feel like less of a failure (or outcast), and I'm no different. Enjoy the footnotes, and then “Craine & Bloom's Exotic Butcher Shop.”

*Every time a writer ends a sentence with a preposition, the ghost of Ernest Hemingway shoots another hole in his skull.

**For the longest time, I thought “hellacious” was an actual word, that it was an acceptable synonym for the adjective “hellish.” How long have I been shitting myself on this matter? It's not surprising that “hellacious” isn't printed in the dictionary because I'm pretty sure I was introduced to the word by a pro-wrestling announcer on TV. As in: "What a HELLACIOUS Tombstone Piledriver!"

CRAINE & BLOOM'S EXOTIC BUTCHER SHOP

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.

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 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: