I'm Nice Because I'm Cynical

Maybe it's just me, but I am horrified by this story: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070930/ap_on_re_us/airport_death

What really made this woman snap? How is it possible to strangle one's self with handcuffs?

More importantly, what is happening to us?

I think she'd had enough.

Enough rudeness, enough people around her behaving as though they were the only ones who mattered, enough bad-service-with-a-smile.

It used to be that when you saw someone do something stupid behind the wheel of a car, it was because they were in a hurry or hadn't planned ahead far enough to change lanes amid the congestion. Now, virtually every bad driver out there is on a cellular phone. (This is my observation, anyway.)

Walmart has done away with their customer service phone lines, replacing them with a recorded message that tells customers to use their SELF help website "service". A year and a half ago, my old credit card company sold my balance to a different bank, which sent me a new card (same balance, same limit, new card), and I spent three weeks in daily automated phone loops trying to activate the card. After five minutes of menu listening and button pushing, I'd get a message that, "all our customer service representatives are helping other customers, please try again later." Followed by a resounding click. Airlines offer their best discounts only to people who purchase online, without using a customer service representative. I've called to book a particularly odd routing and been told, "You could have saved X dollars had you ordered online," when the routing I needed was not available online. Software companies charge large fees for technical assistance even when they don't offer adequate documentation to help you solve a problem on your own.

The article does mention that the woman was late for her flight. I'd like to know why. Did she fail to allow enough time to get through security? Did she fail to allow enough time to get through traffic? Less than a week after 9/11, I went back East on a business trip. My flight was scheduled to depart at 9 am, but I'd been watching the news and surfing the Internet, so I knew to arrive at least two hours prior to my flight. I got into the security line, boarding pass in hand, at 5:30 am. The line was already well over an hour long. A woman (who, incidentally, had three bags with her) a place in front of me in line turned to me and said, "Gee, do you think I'll make my 6 am flight?" I politely suggested that she go to the ticket agent's desk and let them know she would be missing her flight. She walked away, leaving her bags where they were, and asked over her shoulder, "Will you watch my bags?" No, I replied, I will not. Ten feet away, she turned and asked, "What did you say?" No, I repeated, I will not watch your bags. There was a moment of silent glaring between us, over which we could hear, "Due to the heightened security, keep your bags with you at all times..." She snatched her bags, called me an ass, and went to the ticket agent...who promptly walked her to the head of the security line.

So, given that the airlines will do everything in their power to help you get to your flight, including inconveniencing other passengers, what happened to this woman?

If she was late through her own negligence, why did she snap? If she was late through some unavoidable hazard like an accident the freeway, why did she freak out to the point where she choked herself trying to pull her way out of those handcuffs?

My cynical guess is that her family will sue the airline for wrongful death.

And my cynical side is also growing increasingly afraid that anyone we come into contact with during our day could come just as unhinged as she did, with equally devastating results.

In a very practical sense, and purely for survival reasons, it makes sense to be nice to people.

'Bout Birfin'

Beginning about 6 pm last night, I started sending the completed rough draft of "Everything In Between" out to my readers.

I don't know why I was hoping for immediate feedback. First, no one can read 110 pages in a few minutes, assimilate the contents, and write a well-thought-out response with cogent notes in, oh, half an hour. And B) it was Friday night.

To paraphrase Butterfly McQueen, "I don't know nuffin 'bout birfin' no screenplays."

Still, I feel like an expectant father. As I was writing it, I maintained a relatively casual air about it ("Oh, yeah. I'm writing a screenplay. It's no big deal."), even as I wrote 4 - 5 pages per day, forsaking most things, including basic hygiene on weekends, to get it finished. Having written "CUT TO BLACK" at 5:30, I was ready for bed by 9:30, at least physically, if not mentally. I tossed and turned a while, wonderinghopingpraying, semisuccessfully suppressing the nagging thought that I, myself, have never read it end-to-end, so whatthehellwasIthinking?

I know it's a monster of a good idea for a movie.

But is my execution of the idea even remotely on the mark? I don't have the faintest fucking clue.

I remember, at age four, dancing around the living room with my grandmother, singing, "She had a baby girl! She had a baby girl!" in the seconds after the phone call came with news of my sister's birth. I also remember being conscious at the time of the fact that I had no idea what that meant in real terms.

In a way, I've been dancing around for the last month, singing, "I'm writing a screenplay", with no idea what it really meant. And here I am at 3 am the morning after finishing the rough draft, wondering if I've done this magnificent idea any justice at all.

This much, I do know: There are nuggets of truth in it. In the second-to-last scene, one of my characters says something so poignant that before I could type it, I started bawling and had to take a ten minute break before I could continue. The critic in my brain says, "Sure, but will the audience feel that way?"

So, here I sit. At 2:15 this morning, restless from anxiety and heartburn, I could stand being in bed no longer, and I got up only to discover that I have nothing to drink that isn't acidic...including the water.

I believe I shall, after all, print a copy of my script and read it at last from start to finish. I will try to ignore the errors I see, and look to the story.

And later, I'll probably take a nap.

She Had It Coming

I killed a woman Sunday night.

Granted, she was one of the characters in my screenplay, but it was still a gut-wrenching experience. In the end, I didn't actually show her death, since the conversation between the characters at her death-bed was the important part of the scene, but that didn't make it any easier.

In fact, not showing her death felt a little like I was holding something back. I don't pull my punches on the rest of the screenplay; it's not gritty or edgy, but its examination of some topical and sensitive issues will certainly draw criticism from the Religious Right and quite possibly from women's rights organizations. Some of it will be decidedly difficult to watch.

So, why did I hold back from showing her issuing that last, long sigh as she passed? As I wrote the scene, and the two characters at her bedside talk, it became apparent that I didn't need to. No matter how I tried to steer the scene in that direction, the characters' conversation wouldn't let me go there. The dialogue was good, powerful, meaningful stuff; it just didn't mesh with the moment of this woman's death. Suddenly, I was at the end of the scene, and she was still alive.

And I realized that I didn't need to show it. It may be more powerful because I don't show it. One moment on screen, she's alive but on life support. The next, her sister is putting her personal effects in a box.

I'm learning a great deal about story telling as I write this screenplay, and one of the most important lessons is that what you don't say, what you don't show, can be even more moving than what you do.

I had known all along, since the morning I first outlined this story, that this woman was going to die. Her death carries important lessons for all the other characters...lessons about how we connect with each other, lessons about hate and intolerance and ignorance, lessons about love.

From a purely storytelling standpoint, her passing came at the climax of the story, the point at which the film moves from the second act into the third. We're into the home stretch, now.

Still, when the moment came, it was painful, and I found myself grieving the loss. I sat in the dark for a while. I got up and poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir, then sat in the dark a while longer.

I'll be finished with the first draft by Sunday at the latest. After that, it's out to my readers, then back for rewrites and adjustments. I won't see her in quite the same way I did when I was writing the first two thirds of this first draft, though. I'll know where she's going, how she ends up. Our relationship won't be as innocent as it was.

I guess that's to be expected. After all, I did kill her.

Even if she did have it coming.