EXT. SAN FRANCISCO MARINA — AFTERNOON

Gorgeous, sunny day. Magnificent yachts line the harbor. Down a wooden pier, each boat gets smaller and smaller… at the end, a tiny, ragged sailboat. A rusted bike lays on the deck.

VOICEMAIL: … Hi, you’ve reached Chas. Not in the casa right now, but leave a mesh, I’ll hit ya back. Peace.

INT. SAILBOAT

Cramped. Messy. Someone actually lives here? Beep.

KEITH V.O. (pleasant): … Hey, Charles. Keith here, Department of Education. Just wanna give you a friendly heads-up: your student loan’s a month overdue…

Floor’s littered with dirty clothes, unopened bills and books from a wide range of subjects. A fraternity paddle and photos of happy, drunken college kids hang on the walls. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Hey. Keith again, Department of Education. Haven’t heard from ya, buddy. Been a few months, gettin’ a lil’ worried. Gimme a call…

CHARLES ‘CHAS’ CHANDLER (27) straggles to his feet, groggy. Wearing a frayed SAUCY STATE #1 PARTY SCHOOL t-shirt, he scuffles a few feet over to the ‘kitchen.’ Beep.

KEITH V.O. (no longer pleasant): … So, what, think you can just hide away? Huh? Pretend I don’t exist? Like I’m a figment of your fucking imagination?…

Chas grabs a box of generic kid’s cereal. Opens the dorm room fridge… all that’s inside is a near-empty carton of milk. Goes to dump the rest in his cereal, when he notices a saucer on the floor… pours the milk into the saucer instead and whistles. His cat, SAUCY, sashays over and laps it up. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: Know this is gonna fuck up your credit, don’tcha? Shit, you won’t be able to get a Discover card- and they hand those out to the fucking homeless.

Chas plops down at the small, wobbly table. Powers on his ragged laptop as he eats cereal right out of the box. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Awright, listen up, dickface. I am fresh outta fucks- like decent looking whores after last call. I swear to Christ, I will HUNT your pussy ass down. Do not push me…

He opens World of Warcraft, a fantasy game. Chooses an avatar- healer. Next, he has to pick an occupation. Scrolls through the options. Like in his real life, it’s a tough decision…

His phone rings, a raunchy hip-hop ringtone. He eyes his cell: a ‘208’ number. Keith, his student loan collector. Chas shudders, fear coursing through him. Declines the call, then shuts off his phone. Back to the game. Back to fantasy.

EXT. STRIP MALL, HOMEDALE, IDAHO — CONTINUOUS

Empty mom and pop shops in a dying town. On the 2nd floor, a business: PERFECTION COLLECTION, a smiley face on the door.

KEITH V.O.: … And, oh yeah, full disclosure- did 8 years for aggravated assault. Bashed this fucker’s head in so bad, dumb shit got brain damage…

INT. PERFECTION COLLECTION

Shoddy gray cubicles. Scraggly collectors work the phones. These scoundrels reek of booze, body odor and broken homes.

KEITH V.O.: … Now he’s a vegetable, thank you very much. And not even the smart kind. More like a… lima bean.

MANAGER’S OFFICE.

KEITH HOLMES (42) slumps in a chair. With his mullet, mustache, and Metallica T-shirt, he’s forever stuck in 1987. He’s calm now, but there’s menace lurking in his pudgy body.

KEITH V.O.: … Think I give a shit I go back? Called room and board, dickhead. And guess what? Mine’s free….

He sits across from his boss, PATRICK (50s), a hippie with a ponytail. In stark contrast to the boiler room operation, the office is chock full of candles and incense- a mystic vibe.
They’re listening to the messages that Keith left for Chas.

KEITH V.O.: … So don’t think I won’t come out to that Saddam and Gum-whora city-

Patrick shuts off the recording, sighing.

PATRICK: How many times we gone over this?
KEITH: I dunno. How many times I told ya we gotta go alpha dog on their asses? All they understand is force- like terrorists. Why you think waterboarding works so good?
PATRICK: … Well, actually…
KEITH: Shit. Hitler be runnin’ amok today, didn’t fake drown his generals.
PATRICK: It’s not the way we do business here. We talked about this.
KEITH: Fucker’s got money, too. Know he lives in a 5 million dollar house?
PATRICK: Sorry, but… this is, uh… I’m gonna hafta let you go.
KEITH (chuckles): Yeah, right. Pretty sure that’s the incense talking.
PATRICK: Gave you a chance after, ya know…
KEITH: Thanks. Thanks for the opportunity of a commission-only job.
PATRICK: Not everyone hires ex-cons.
KEITH: Awright, fine. Fuck it, you win. I’ll play by your stupid rules.
PATRICK: I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Frankly, you’ve become a liability.
KEITH: Frankly, you become an asshole. (beat) How much cash I brought into this fucking place? Huh?
PATRICK: Zero, last couple months.
KEITH: Ah, that’s… you know I ain’t been right since my moms passed. (beat) Oh, and guess what? Goddamn IRS says she owes a shit ton a’ back taxes. Might lose the house.
PATRICK: Tsk, sorry to hear that. Wish there was something I could do.
KEITH: Yeah. Gimme my fucking job back.

Hating confrontation, Patrick reaches down and grabs a large, wrapped fruit basket off the floor. Sets it on the desk, proud of himself for solving the problem. Keith gawks at it.

KEITH: Fuck’s that?
PATRICK: Gift. From corporate. It’s supposed to go to the top man, but… go ‘head, take it.
KEITH (snickers): Gotta be… that’s my parting gift?
PATRICK: It’s a very nice assortment.

Keith springs to his feet, incensed.

KEITH: Know what, Patrick? Fuck you and the Hyundai you came in on.

And knocks over a stick of burning incense.

KEITH: Smells like Tibet in here.
PATRICK: Don’t make me call security.
KEITH: Call ‘em! Fuck do I care? Hell, I’d love a police escort, go out in style. Let’s OJ this bitch.

Snatches the fruit basket off the desk.

KEITH: Fuck it, I am taking this thing. Sell this shit on the street like a fucking Mexican… thank you, Patrick. You made me an illegal alien. Vaya cum dios, motherfucker.

And flips Patrick off as he stomps out of the room.

INT. PERFECTION COLLECTION — ONE MINUTE LATER

A security guard at his side (30s, fat, mustache), Keith cleans out his desk: half a baloney sandwich, bag of Funyons and a plastic flask. The security guard eyes him quizzically.

KEITH: What, gonna judge me? You’re a fucking mall cop. Strip mall.

Whips open his flip phone like a switchblade and snaps a photo of the computer screen: Chas’ info is on it.

EXT. PARKING LOT, STRIP MALL — ONE MINUTE LATER

The security guard escorts Keith to his car as he struggles to carry the fruit basket and all his belongings.

KEITH: Could help me, ya know. Fucker.

Opens the cab of his battered, mud-caked 1995 Ford F-150. Crams his stuff next to a stockpile of shotguns and rifles.

Screenplay Rating:

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Executive Summary

The screenplay ‘TIMELY’ presents a compelling narrative that intertwines themes of mortality, redemption, and the complexities of human relationships. The character arcs, particularly that of Brad Eckhart, are well-developed, showcasing a journey from superficiality to a deeper understanding of life and love. The screenplay effectively balances humor and drama, though it could benefit from tightening certain plot points and enhancing character motivations in specific scenes. Overall, it is a strong piece that resonates with audiences seeking both entertainment and emotional depth.

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A scruffy, handsome young man smiles, as if posing for the cover of Life magazine. Celebrity? Perhaps. A flashbulb POPS.

INT. BOOKING ROOM, JAILHOUSE, ERIE, PA

Stocky, mustached cop, SERGEANT KRAVITZ (30s), thumbs through paperwork, processing a prisoner. On his tidy desk, a small American flag (48 stars) and a radio airing the World Series.

Title: SEPTEMBER 1946

SERGEANT KRAVITZ:… ‘Klep.’ That one ‘p’ or two? Got it both ways here.

Across from him, slouched in a chair, the scruffy young man. He sports a baseball uniform with ‘Pontiacs’ on the front. His bloodshot eyes betray his drunkenness; a wry smile, his childlike demeanor. This is EDDIE KLEP (27).

EDDIE: Just call me Eddie. Or Lefty. Some a’ of the guys call me Lefty.

The sergeant shoots him a look, then glimpses the papers.

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Quite a record you got here, Lefty.
EDDIE: 21 and 4, couldn’t touch me.
SERGEANT KRAVITZ (reading): Drunkenness. Disorderly Conduct. Adultery.
EDDIE: 2 and 0 for the Bucks. Can’t pin that last one- bases were loaded.
SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Seem a lil’ loaded yourself.

Eddie sits up, earnestly.

EDDIE: Hey, got a bottle stashed in here? Don’t worry, I won’t say nothin’.
SERGEANT KRAVITZ (ignoring him): This time it’s what… ‘burglary’ and ‘receiving stolen goods.’
EDDIE: Goods? C’mon, it was just beer.
SERGEANT KRAVITZ: 42 dollars and fifty cents worth.
EDDIE: What can I say, I was thirsty.
SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Think this is a joke? Huh? Fellas overseas, fightin’ and dyin,’ you in and outta here like a hotel?
EDDIE: Whaddya want, they said I was 4F. Uh, funny and frank and…

Losing his train of thought, he hears the game on the radio.

BROADCASTER V.O.: … The young southpaw has a honey of a future ahead of him…

Gazing at the radio, the grin’s yanked off his face.

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Everything the same? Same address?
EDDIE: Yeah.
SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Still married?
EDDIE: Huh?
SERGEANT KRAVITZ: There a Mrs. Klep? And we’re gonna go with one ‘p,’ keep it simple.
EDDIE: What does she gotta do with it?! She don’t gotta know.
SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Think she’ll find out soon enough.

Eddie considers.

EDDIE: Yeah. Yeah. You’re right. Prob’ly be all over the papers.

Sinks back in his chair, defeated.

BROADCASTER V.O.: … Another strikeout for the hard throwing left hander…
EDDIE: Could you turn that off?
SERGEANT KRAVITZ: It’s the World Series.
EDDIE: I have rights, ya know.
SERGEANT KRAVITZ: What, don’t like baseball?

Eddie snickers.

SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Figure you did, that getup on.

Eddie springs up in his seat, his face flushed with a mixture of bewilderment and rage-

EDDIE: You don’t know who I am, do you?
SERGEANT KRAVITZ: Am I supposed to?
EDDIE (big): Yeah.

HOLD on his fiery eyes, a look we’ll get to know. Over this, chants of ‘ED-DEE!’ ‘ED-DEE!’