From my friend David King, a brand new piece of writing:
The Letter
by David King
So how do we start? Fade in? Or a simple cut? Yes, that's best. A simple cut. First there's nothing, then - bingo! - there's something.
An image, greyish washed-out monochrome. A rather desolate street. Sad-looking houses or perhaps a large demolition site. Yes, a demolition site if we can find one.
(Note to Location Department: do we have any demolition sites nearby? Please attach photos if possible).
Rubble and debris fronted by high interlinked wire fence with signs warning trespassers of prosecution, asking visitors to report to the site office, and tradesmen to wear helmets and ear protection.
A slim man in his early 30's is walking along the street. Not slim in the lean athletic sense but in the weedy sapling sense. A breath of wind might blow him over. But like a willow, he bends with the wind whichever way it blows. If it blows to the left, he leans to the left. If it blows to the right, he leans to the right. A man of least resistance. A man who stands for nothing but his own daily survival. There are many like him. They used to be found enmasse in large offices all over the world, doing trivial, almost meaningless jobs with pieces of paper and pens and rubber stamps. What do they do now? Never mind. What he does for a living has nothing to do with our story.
This man doesn't need a name. He's just The Man or The Chap, Him, He to denote the masculine sex which in his case isn't very masculine at all. He's not the Hero type and won't be seen with any beautiful young women on his arm much less in bed with. He just happens to have male sex organs under the drab chinos he wears above the equally drab sneakers on his feet.
He could be called The Grey Man for, in monochrome, all his clothes appear to be shades of grey. The jumper he wears above his chinos and the shirt whose collar we see peeking above the jumper. Even his complexion is grey. He has a thin, sallow clean-shaven face with receding chin and an expression that tells us nothing of his state of mind. He may not even have a state of mind. Or perhaps it's in neutral, waiting for something to happen, to spark it into action.
His hairline is also receding as if in disgust at having to grow on such a head. It can't wait to be gone and leave him bald. Or worse, semi-bald. He'll grow into one of those weedy, bent-over chaps with tiny tufts of hair growing on their bald pates and around their ears.
(Note to Casting Department: do we have anyone on the books like this? It's a pretty common sort but no Extras please. A real actor who can bring credibility to the role).
Why do we even bother with such a man, you wonder. Why can't we have a Bruce Willis-type hero who commands the screen and our attention no matter what sort of role he plays? Why this waste of space? Be patient and we'll find out. Some things only ever happen to certain types of people. They would never happen to Bruce Willis or Signourey Weaver who will always have villains and aliens to beat.
Our man has no villains or aliens to beat but he does carry an envelope in his left hand. It is a large envelope probably holding folded A4-size pages.
He comes to a post box mounted on a post. A standard red post box with a slot for letters, a pull down flap for parcels and a notice in white letters the giving times of mail pick up and delivery.
He puts the envelope in the slot and turns away to leave. Suddenly, from behind him, a sound:
Phhlllttt!
He turns and looks at the post box. It looks back a him. On the ground below it is the letter he just posted. How did that happen? He's sure he put it into the slot properly. He's sure it fell onto the other letters and parcels waiting inside. How can it now be on the ground in front of the box?
He bends and picks up the letter and drops it into the slot again. This time he waits and watches. Nothing happens. He turns away to leave.
Phhlllttt!
Again, our man turns and sees the letter he just posted lying on the ground in front of the post box. This is ridiculous. It can't be happening. He looks around to make sure there are no camera crews recording a tv program which puts innocent, unsuspecting people in strange situations for the amusement of an audience.
Of course, there is a camera otherwise we would not be witnessing what we are. But our man cannot see this camera or the person who operates it. It is outside his world view.
He picks up the envelope, brushes off some dirt and slips it into the post box slot again. This time - phhlllttt! - it comes shooting out immediately as if some tiny little person inside has forcibly ejected it.
“Can't you see I don't want it!” the post box snaps.
The Man is taken aback. He actually stumbles back a pace and stares at the post box in amazement. Is he imagining things or did the box just speak?
“I beg your pardon,” he says, feeling quite ridiculous. After all, who in their right mind would talk to a post box?
(Note to Casting Department: can we get a small person with an adult voice for this role? A dwarf or something? Must be able to comfortably fit inside a standard post box and remain inside for a while.)
(Note to Legal Department: will the Post Office allow this? What are the insurance issues?)
“I don't want it so don't try sticking it in me again!” says the post box.
The man stares at the box.
“You...don't...want...my letter?” he repeats, trying and failing to wrap his mind around the possibility of a talking post box with awareness and choice.
“That's right. I don't want it,” replies the post box. “Now buzz off and stop bothering me!”
“But why don't you want it?” our man asks.
“Because I don't. That's all. I just don't.”
As the Man picks up his envelope, a woman comes along. A well-dressed woman of middle age with a toy poodle on a leash.
(Note to Props and Casting Departments: can we get a toy poodle? Does anyone know someone with a toy poodle or a similar type of dog? What are toy poodle rates? Will DoggyBix do?)
She carries an envelope which she puts in the post box slot and, with a smile at the man, walks off. The Man stares at the box, waiting for it to reject the letter. Nothing happens.
“Excuse me,” he says to the post box. “You just accepted that lady's letter.”
“Of course, I did,” replies the post box. “It's my job to accept letters. I'm a post box.”
“But you won't accept mine,” the Man says.
“No, I won't accept yours.”
“Why not?”
“Because I won't. That's all there is to it.”
“You can't pick and choose whose letters you accept or don't accept,” the Man argues.
“Of course, I can,” the post box replies. “It's my right!”
“You don't have any rights! You're post box!”
“How dare you insult me! I will never accept anything you post ever again! So there!”
“I'm lodging a complaint.”
“Then go and lodge your complaint. See where it gets you!”
“You haven't heard the end of this,” threatens the Man.
“Haven't I?” chortles the Post Box. “Oh, haven't I?” Now actually laughing as the Man storms off down the street.
So that's the end of Act I. Our Chap has a predicament. He's going to complain about a talking post box which refused to accept his letter. Is anyone going to believe him?
How to start Act II? A Fade In this time? Or just cut in from black? Come to think of it, how did we end that scene? Was there a Fade Out as he stormed off or just a cut? Probably best to have a quick Fade Out followed by a quick Fade In. Remember to make Note to Editing Department.
So here we are: Act II. Interior of a suburban Post Office.
(Note to Set Design: We don't want a modern suburban Post office. More like the Post Offices they had back in the 1950's and 60's when Post Offices were grandiose buildings which only dealt with letters and parcels and the only things you could buy in them were stamps and envelopes. The sort where clerks in suits and ties and short hair cuts sat behind marble counters. Can we build a set like this? Do we have anything that could be modified to look like this?)
A male clerk in his 50's, thin, balding with spectacles perched on his nose, sits behind a marble counter sorting envelopes. Our Man comes up to the counter and waits to be noticed. He is holding the envelope which the Post Box refused to accept. The clerk seems to be in no hurry to notice the man. The man finally clears his throat. The clerk reluctantly looks up at him.
“Excuse me,” our Man says. “I'm here to lodge a complaint.”
“Are you?” says the Clerk.
“Yes, I am,” says the Man.
“And what,” says the Clerk, shuffling envelopes and putting them aside. “if I may ask, is the nature of this complaint, sir?”
“I know you probably won't believe this,” says the Man. “But the post box in Burton Street refused to accept my letter.”
The Clerk peers at the Man over the top of his spectacles.
“Did it now?”
“Yes, it did. But it accepted the letter of a lady who came after me.”
“I see,” the Clerk says. “And why do you think it refused to accept your letter?”
“It wouldn't give any reason. It just said it didn't want my letter.”
The Clerk sighs.
“Well, I'm afraid there's not much I can do about it, sir. Post boxes do have their rights, you know.”
Our Man is understandably exasperated.
“Now look here!” he says. “I've had enough of this! First a talking post box which refuses to accept letters and now you acting like there's nothing at all unusual about it. What's going on here?”
“Nothing's going on, sir,” the Clerk replies. “Your letter is simply unacceptable to the post box.”
“Why should it be unacceptable?” the Man demands. “And why should any post box have a say in what's acceptable and what's not?”
“How would I know why your letter should be unacceptable?” responds the Clerk, “As for the post box, they've had their rights ever since I can remember.” He looks at the letter in the Man's hand. “Perhaps if you tell me what's in that letter, I might have some idea.”
“None of your business what's in the letter!” snaps the Man.
“Well, in that case, I can't help you.”
The Clerk resumes sorting letters. The Man stands fuming.
“I demand to speak to the Manager,” he says.
The Clerk looks up at him. “I wouldn't do that if I was you, sir.”
“I said I want to speak to the Manager.”
“I warn you, it will do no good. No good at all. Might even get you into a whole lot of trouble, young man.”
“The Manager!”
The Clerk stares at him. He stares back at the Clerk. Finally the Clerk picks up a telephone, dials two numbers.
(Note to Props Department: do we have any old telephones with dials? The black 1940's office type would be excellent).
“A complaint for The Manager.”
He puts the receiver down and looks at the Man with a stern expression,
“Don't say I didn't warn you.”
A young (Note to Casting Dept: early 20's, conventionally attractive, hair color doesn't matter) lady in tight sweater, tight knee-length skirt and high heels comes up to the Man.
“If you'll follow me, sir,” she says in a voice literally dripping with contempt while she exchanges a knowing look with the Clerk.
The Man follows her through the huge Post Office hall and up a set of stairs.
(Note to Set Design: the Post Office Hall could be partly a painted set as it should give the impression of a huge mausoleum-like building, light falling diagonally through huge narrow windows, very noir-ish).
Arriving at the top of the stairs, they walk down a long wide, corridor with doors along either side. The young lady finally stops at a door with a brass plaque which says: Manager, Postal Services. She knocks and enters. The Man follows.
They step into an ante room with a secretary in her mid-30's behind an old-fashioned manual office typewriter.
(Note to Set Design and Props Departments: every step of this journey seems to take our protagonist deeper into some strange and mythical past. Have fun with it!)
“A complaint for The Manager,” the Young Lady says to the Receptionist.
The Receptionist looks at the Man over the top of her rimless spectacles then gets up and goes to the door of The Manager's office and knocks and opens it.
“The Complainant, sir,” she says then turns and ushers the man in.
Inside the office. The Man steps in and stops staring in astonishment as the door closes firmly behind him.
Nearly two thirds of the office is taken up by a huge pulsating turnip, its protuberances and offshoots connected by cables to sockets in the ceiling and walls.
(Note to Props and FX departments: how big do turnips grow? Can we get a really big one? Genetically Modified or something? Can we make one out of polystyrene? Please advise.)
“About time!” snorts the turnip through a massive maw of a mouth. “I've been waiting ages for lunch!”
“B-b-b-but you're a - a - a turnip!” the Man gasps.
“What did you expect, boy? A cauliflower? A radish, perhaps. Don't tell me a beet!?”
(Note to Casting department: we need a big booming bully-boy voice for this role.)
The turnip harrumphs to itself.
“Barely fit for the pot, that lot! As for my brothers and sisters, boy, do you know all they could imagine for themselves was being in somebody's stew? No ambition anywhere these days. I pulled myself up by my root straps to get where I am now, boy! So don't you 'turnip' me. I'm 'Mr Manager' to you. Now come here!”
Our Man edges nervously forward.
“I wanted to lodge a complaint about - “ he begins.
“I know very well what you want, boy,” snaps the turnip.
“Come closer! I'm linked to every post box in the region. What I don't know isn't worth knowing. Closer! Let's see that letter of yours. Closer now! Come on, don't be shy! You want me to look into your complaint don't you?”
Roast turnip anyone?
But what does our Man do? He gapes at the massive turnip while being drawn inexorably closer until - CHOMP!
Black. End of Act II.
Act III.
(Note to Editing Department: a clean cut from Black, please).
In the receptionist's ante room, the intercom buzzes.
“Miss Hotchkiss - in here, now!” barks the turnip's voice.
The receptionist gets up and goes to the office door.
Inside the office, the turnip is all alone. The door opens, the receptionist appears.
The turnip lets out a burp.
“You see that letter there, Miss Hotchkiss?”
The letter formerly carried by our Man is lying on the floor near the turnip's drooling mouth.
“Yes, sir,” Miss Hotchkiss replies.
“Be a dear and post it for me, would you?”
“Certainly, sir.”
She steps quickly forward, scoops up the the envelope and is back at the door in a flash. Never get too close to a turnip when it's your manager. Especially when it's your manager. She's about to return to the ante room when the turnip speaks again.
“Miss Hotchkiss?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Forgive my little peccadillos but I was wondering if you might...”
(Note to Editing Department: another clean cut, please).
We are inside a tiny little car being driven by Miss Hotchkiss. Her head and hairstyle barely fit under the roof. In fact, her head might even be tilted so as not to squash her hairdo against the roof.
(Note to Props and Transport Departments: can we get a funny little Goggomobil thing - maybe one of those toy-like Renaults or a little Morris or Hillman sedan like they had back in the late 50's?)
Miss Hotchkiss is muttering to herself as she drives: “A whole bloody Post Office to himself and he wants me to come all the way out here!”
We are back in the street with the demolition site and the red post box. Miss Hotchkiss's car pulls up beside the post box. She gets out, long shapely legs first (To Legal Department: what do you mean that's a sexist comment? It's just what we see!), smooths down her short skirt, goes to the post box and pops the letter into the slot.
“Little peccadilloes indeed!” she sniffs, returning to her car.
Behind her, the post box swells slightly and gives a satisfied little burp.
The End
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