Listen: Changes – David Bowie
INT. DENNY HALL
October Woods stands at the front of the room. Her hair, long and black, is unkempt, and she wears round wire-rimmed glasses, a wrinkled white shirt, and a long black skirt. This isn’t the type of attire she normally wears, but she wanted to look like a real, bonafide writer. Her audience is composed of the members of a poetry club (lame), which should have let out around fifteen minutes ago but didn’t (boring). This is the first meeting she’s attended. At the moment, only three people care what she has to say (sad).
October (reading): Dear Love, where are you? Why have you tinted my daydreams? Why are you always where I’m going and never where I’ve been? I’ve never understood the bus schedule in this city, I just get on and hope I end up somewhere pleasant. I’m tired of eating pancakes alone at midnight. I see you in the faces of people I’ve never met. Every New Years I sip on thoughts of you, while an unopened bottle of stale champagne rests on my mantle. Nothing phases me these days but the paper cuts I get from Hallmark greeting cards and any romantic movie with a happy ending. I keep waiting for some sort of resolution. And although they say you calm near the end, I fear I’ll die in love with all that might have been. Dear Love, hear my stomach’s hollow howl. I’m sitting in a diner, but I could swear my mind is already in the restroom with food poisoning. There’s too many items on this menu. I’m not hungry anymore. How many calories are in a grilled cheese? I just want something that isn’t very good for me. I want to leave with a lump in my chest and a hole in my wallet. Nothing seems to be quite what I want, but I definitely don’t want nothing. I guess I’ll just get the pancakes.
Perfunctory applause. Clap-a-dee-clap-clap, daddy-o. October returns to her seat, and Some Chick takes her place.
Some Chick: Alright, everyone, I think we can call that a night. Next week we’ll be meeting in the Union. I don’t know where yet. I’ll send everyone an email ahead of time. Additionally—this is kind of personal… I know this is my first year as president, but going forward I’m hoping we can get some poetry that’s maybe a little less depressing. Life’s hard, guys, I get it. But, seriously, it’s like the casting call for a Zoloft commercial in here. Write about flowers or something for Christ’s sake. Write about love, instead of how you’ve never been in love like October did. By the way, welcome to the club, October. Ben, if you’re going to write about a fist fight you were in, write about fighting in the defense of virtue—in the defense of truth. No one cares about a black eye you received while defending your Nintendo DS from a bunch of playground bullies. And if you’re going to write about losing your virginity—which I don’t recommend that you do, Janice—don’t write about some quickie in the high school band practice room. Embellish! I mean, jeez. Throw some candles in there and maybe an environment a little more conducive to romance than the place where teenagers learn to play “Seven Nation Army”. Maybe this just my personal taste, but I don’t like art because I’m a big fan of reality. I like art because I hate my life. So let’s keep reality the hell away from the things we create. That’s all I’ve got.
Some Chick exits, as do a bunch of other people we don’t care about. I’m not sure how Some Chick got elected the president of a poetry club, but there you have it. October stands up and gathers her belongings. Bradley Duncan Chase (1 of 3) walks up to her.
Bradley (sticking his hand out for a shake): Hi, I’m Bradley Duncan Chase.
October (giving him a shake): Hi, I’m October.
Bradley: I really liked your poem. It reminded me of Allen Ginsberg’s “America”. Not that it was derivative, but both are poems about topics, you know? Like, his was about America, and yours was about pancakes and love and stuff.
Bradley pauses for a moment, considering bailing on the conversation, right there, but then deciding that would only make the situation worse.
Bradley (adjusting his collar nervously): I’m sorry if I’m a bit awkward. I get a little nervous around new people. But, anyways, I really liked your poem.
October (amused): Thanks! I wish you read something, so I could compliment it.
Bradley: Wouldn’t that be a bit disingenuous?
October: Oh, I’m sure there’d be something worthy of a compliment. Plus, I’m a bit disingenuous.
Bradley: Hey, this might be a bit forward, but would you like to come to my church this Sunday. We’re having an open mic night. It’s really low key, and the people are really nice. You could read one of your poems.
October, knowing fully well that this is a terrible idea, agrees to it anyway.
October: Yeah, I’d love to! But only if you read one too.
Bradley: Alright, it’s a deal.
They exchange numbers and talk a bit more. Yada yada yada. October exits.
CUT TO:
EXT. THE SAME BUILDING, BUT OUTSIDE NOW — IT’S NIGHTTIME
October exits Denny Hall, all confident from being hit on. Louis (2 of 3) and Elaine (3 of 3) are leaning on the side of the building like cool people sometimes do in those slick Hollywood movies.
Louis (shouting to get October attention): Hey, you!
October turn around to face them.
Elaine (talking at Louis): “Hey, you?” What are you gonna mug her?
Louis: Give me your money, punk!
October (walking over): Do you take dining dollars?
October walks over.
Louis: Hey, this is a classy mugging operation, okay, don’t insult us. We’ll take BuckID cash, but dining dollars? That’s unacceptable.
October (chuckling): I saw you guys sitting in the back. You’re in the poetry club?
Elaine: Well, we’re not really in poetry club. We just like coming to listen to people pour their hearts out. You know, people are so guarded in life. It’s a nice change of pace.
Louis: Hey, we’re about to go to Sloopy’s. Do you want to come?
CUT TO:
INT. SLOOPY’S (APPARENTLY SHE SAID YES)
They had been sitting in a booth for a while, talking nonsense and the likes, as you do. October is on one side, and Elaine and Louis on the other. What they ordered isn’t important, but I’m going to tell you anyways. Louis ordered the chicken and chips, Elaine ordered the chicken and fries, and October wanted chicken but ordered a turkey club and mashed potatoes, because she wanted to be different.
Elaine: So now everyone calls us Lois Lane.
October: Does it bother you that people think you’re dating?
Elaine: Not really. But, still, I don’t know why everyone assumes.
Louis: We are pretty flirtatious.
Elaine: But not exclusively with each other. I mean, I’ll flirt with my grandpa. I don’t care.
The waiter brings them their food.
October: So you guys are theatre majors?
Louis: Yeah. Sorry, what are you majoring in? I feel like I asked already.
Elaine: She said English.
October: I was actually thinking about majoring in theatre. You know, I really like the idea of being a different person for a while, and kind of seeing the world through someone else’s eyes.
Elaine: You should do it.
Louis: Have you ever been in a play before?
October (laughing): Well, that’s an interesting story.
An Interesting Story
When October was a young girl, her dream was to be a famous actress. However, her grandma wouldn’t allow it. One day, after school, October raced into the kitchen, rosy-cheeked and full of doe-eyed optimism, with the most abundantly good news she ever had heard: she was going to play the lead role in the school play. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” her grandmama said with a croak, “I forbid you from ever participating in any performance of any theatrical production, musical or otherwise! We can’t have ugly people, like you, taking all the good roles!” And with that October’s dreams were crushed.
Elaine: What the hell is wrong with your grandma?
Here’s What the Hell is Wrong with October’s Grandma
When Edna Woods was a young girl, her dream was to be a famous actress. However, her personality wouldn’t allow it. When Edna was in fifth grade, she had a role in her school’s play and was forced to kiss the ugliest boy in her two-bit excuse of a town. She could never forget how his silly-looking dork-face and greasy dork-hair closed in her face, how his chapped lips pressed against hers, filling her mouth with the taste of generic brand lip balm—the horror. From that point forward, she was never able to step foot on a stage without being reminded of that terrible day—and the horror. And so she made it her life’s mission to do everything she could to prevent ugly people from participating in theatre.
Louis: But you’re not ugly.
October: Yeah, I think it’s because I look like my mom. She hated her.
Elaine: Well, forget about your damn grandmother. You’re in college now. You can do whatever you like. Shave your head, get a tattoo, start smoking pot!
Louis: You know, I think Dylan’s trying to find people for his play. You should audition. He probably won’t care that you’re not a theatre major.
October: Do you know what the play’s about?
Louis: Probably something to do with David Bowie. He’s like—he’s really obsessed with David Bowie.
Elaine: Seriously, when you talk to him, half of the time he just responds by singing David Bowie lyrics. It’s great.
The waiter walks ups, asks how everything is, and walks away before they have time to respond.
Elaine: So about your poem, and it’s subject that grand and elusive thing we call love. Are you involved in any romantic entanglements at the moment? Or just interested in them?
October: Not really. I’ve sort of lost interest in love and dating, recently. I guess it’s just an easy thing to write about.
Elaine, a head-in-the-clouds romantic, is disappointed.
October: I mean, I had a girlfriend before I came to college. But we sort of broke up. You know, going to college, it just seemed like the right time. Plus, she was an atheist.
Louis: You’re religious?
October: No, I’m also an atheist. Although I did go through a phase, after we broke up, where I spent a lot of time researching various religions. But dating another atheist really made me question the whole thing.
Louis: Your atheism?
October: No, question dating another atheist. I mean, I already know what I think about religion, I don’t need to be dating someone who agrees with me.
No one has a response for this.
October (aware that what she’s about to say will sound particularly ridiculous, right now): A guy from the poetry club, Bradley, asked me to go to an open mic night at his church. So I’m going to that on Sunday.
Elaine: You’re going on a date with Bradley?
Louis: So let me get this straight. You’re gay. You’re an atheist. You’re not interested in dating. Yet you’re willing to go out with a religious guy.
Elaine: Don’t be so judgmental.
October: I’m trying to be open to new things.
There’s a pause of sorts, a lull—not a meaningful lull, just a lull, hardly a lull at all, almost a breath.
Louis: Well, you know what the question now is?
October: What?
Louis: Is he interested in you, or is he just being a good christian?
October: What are you talking about? He asked me on a date.
Louis: He asked you to go to a church event with him. There’s a big difference. He could be trying to convert you.
Elaine: Oh, you’re right.
Louis: You read this big poem, full of sorrow and longing, about not being able to find love. He might think you need God.
October: No, no. He was being very flirtatious. It was definitely a date.
Louis: You have to understand these really religious people, they’re not like other people. They feel love and compassion for all living things. They brag about it, practically. Frankly, it makes me sick.
Elaine: It’s disgusting.
October: You can be religious and flirt.
Louis: You just think he was flirting because he was being nice. But, see, it wasn’t real niceness. He’s church nice. He’s nice because he thinks God is watching him all the time. It’s expected. It’s like how everyone’s nice during a job interview or on a first date.
October (growing agitated): We’re going on a first date.
Louis (leaning back): Yeah, but I think it’s a conversion date.
October: Alright, this is so ridiculous.
October gets up from the table.
Elaine: You’re leaving?
October: No, I have an idea. I’ll be back in a second
October walks away. Louis and Elaine sit in silence for a moment.
Louis: I think when a couple stops talking, when they’re at restaurants, that’s the end of the relationship.
Elaine: We’re not in a relationship.
Louis: Yeah, I know, but I think it applies to friendships, too.
Elaine: You think we should dissolve our friendship? Because I’m fine with that.
Louis: No, I don’t think we’re there yet. We still have good conversations. A pause is fine. I’m talking about these people who go a whole meal without saying anything.
Elaine: You know, some people would argue that being able to sit in silence, comfortably, is a sign of a healthy relationship.
Louis: Like who?
Elaine: I don’t know… Quentin Tarantino. Remember that scene in Pulp Fiction where the girl says, “That’s when you know you’ve found someone really special”?
Louis (taking a sip of his coffee): Quentin Tarantino is a psycho.
October returns and takes a seat.
Elaine: Where’d you go?
October: I called Bradley up, told him I couldn’t make it on Sunday, so instead we’re getting dinner on Saturday. So, you see, it’s a date.
Louis: Maybe.
October (annoyed): We’re getting dinner!
Louis: Fine, go to dinner, have a great time. But don’t blame me when you’re getting baptized in some hairy dude’s bathtub.
CUT TO:
INT. BAKER WEST
October goes to her mailbox and finds a letter from her ex-girlfriend, Annie.
Annie’s Letter
Dear October,
I’m not a big fan of putting myself in a vulnerable position. That’s what makes this so difficult for me. I thought about writing a longer introduction where I stalled a bit more, but I couldn’t think of anything other than random facts about Belgium. Breaking up really made me want to study abroad. I wrote you a poem, and I wanted you to read it. I’m not expecting anything to come of it, but I’m secretly hoping that it will make you fall in love with me again.
The One That I Penned
How, my dear, will you paint your room?
The mind’s most bitter tinsel broom,
not cleans, but coats like cheap perfume.
And in your room you work your loom,
preparing, for impending doom,
a prophetic quilt to warm your lonely tomb.
What, my dear, will your epitaph say?
You’ve sculpted your mind like a lump of clay,
new iterations riding the break of day.
Hopscotching in early May,
we met amidst that tense ballet
between new indifference and old cliches.
Who, my dear, will hear your last breath?
And cling to your bed long after your death?
For whom will you wear that fateful wedding dress?
The trash can’s full and the kitchen’s a mess
from the night that you cooked to try to impress
the ones who grew to love you less and less and less.
Where, my dear, do we go when we die?
Maybe I’ll get into heaven even with the wrong tie.
Every prayer of mine sounds like a sigh.
Filter out the tears that cry,
floating down river to a place that’s dry.
Now that you’re gone, I don’t even try.
When, my dear, will your monologue
tie up the ends for the epilogue?
Lost in apparitions of further fog.
Inside churches and synagogues,
you skim the holy scrolls like catalogues,
a search for the beating heart’s great analogue.
Why, my dear, must this story end?
You know, I’m still mourning the death of a friend.
The days drag on and then they seem to blend.
I’m not sure which letter to send
the one that I meant or the one that I penned.
With no hope left, the words are just pretend.
Sincerely,
Annie
P.S. I think you still have my sweater.
CUT TO:
INT. OCTOBER’S BEDROOM (A GIRL’S BEDROOM, THAT’S HOT)
October enters the room with Annie’s letter crumbled up in her hand. She tosses it in the trashcan. #harsh. Julia is sitting at her desk wrapped in a blanket, cup of tea in hand, watching The West Wing on Netflix. Her desk is covered in used Kleenex. She hits pause as October makes her way onto her un-lofted bed. October lies facedown, in a decent enough mood, just tired.
Julia: How was that poetry club meeting?
October flips over.
October: It was alright. I don’t think I’ll go back. Poetry is so burnt, man… I met some nice people, though. I’ve decided that I’m going to be a theatre major.
Julia: What happened to English?
October: What am I going to do with an English degree?
Julia: I don’t even know what I’m going to do with my polisci degree.
October: Well at least you like what you’re studying.
Julia: I mean, I like having super easy classes, but I hate politics.
October: You’re currently watching a show about the White House.
Julia: But it’s not really about politics. It’s about so much more. It’s full of love and optimism and compassion. It’s nothing like politics in real life.
October (drifting away): A guy asked me out today. We’re getting dinner on Saturday.
Julia takes a long drink of tea.
Julia: Aren’t you gay?
October (sitting up): Yeah, but don’t people sexually experiment in college? Plus sexuality is fluid, man.
Julia (unsure): Maybe for some people. Mine’s pretty stable.
October (laying back down): Yeah, I know. I just… I didn’t want to say no.
CUT TO:
END PART ONE
EJS, Staff Member