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PAST DUE Opening Sequence

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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.

TIMELY Coverage

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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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SHADOWBALL Opening Scene

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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!’

TIMELY Opening Scene

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Logline: A narcissistic TV host receives a most shocking letter in the mail- his own death certificate- prompting a journey of self-discovery and redemption, only to find it may be an elaborate prank hatched by his rival.

EXT. STREET, DOWNTOWN SACRAMENTO, CA — AFTERNOON

Gray. Dreary. And it’s Sacramento, so it’s extra depressing. A shabby building with a faded sign: OFFICE OF VITAL RECORDS

CHICO O.S.: Always hustling, since I was a kid. Drugs, guns, girls- you name it.
ASHLEY O.S.: Well, you made it here, so…

Title: SACRAMENTO, JUNE 2024

INT. LOBBY, OFFICE OF VITAL RECORDS

Plain. Ordinary. Except for the passageway that leads to the back room: looks like a full body scanner, the kind you step through at airport security. Strange.

CHICO O.S.: Made some changes.

BACK ROOM.

Cramped. Musty. Ancient computers and filing cabinets. A dusty clock on the wall reads 1:11. Tick-tick-tick.
Two workers scarf down boxes of fried chicken at their desks: ASHLEY (20s), a pretty Southern gal in a summer dress, and CHICO (50s), a wiry, reformed street hustler in a cheap suit.

CHICO: What about you?
ASHLEY: Nothing like that, I mean… I dunno… reckon I wasn’t always the most faithful girlfriend.

On the wall, one of those glass IN CASE OF EMERGENCY boxes. Instead of an ax, though, there’s an aged, black book inside. Something’s very odd about this place.

CHICO: Ah, you’re just a kid.
ASHLEY (softly): Was.

Instantly, a chill strangles the air.

CHICO: Should prob’ly get back to work.

Goes to wipe his hands, but there’s no napkins. Licks his greasy fingers, then clicks the mouse. Printer whirs…

CHICO: Don’t wanna upset the big man.
ASHLEY: ‘Specially my first day.

… Done eating, she collects her trash as Chico grabs the document from the printer. She shuffles to the garbage can- a plastic fork drops to the floor. Bends over to pick it up…
… Chico steals a glimpse at her tanned legs while stuffing the letter into a manila envelope, smudging it with his greasy fingers. The envelope’s addressed to BRADLEY ECKHART.

Title: LOS ANGELES

EXT. AMERICAN SPORTS NETWORK (ASN), CENTURY CITY

Sunlight shimmers off the sleek building.

INT. BRAD’S OFFICE, ASN

BRAD ECKHART (33), the Marlboro man with an LA makeover, studies his handsome face in a compact mirror, checking out the cut on his lip. He’s on speakerphone with his agent, MAX.

BRAD: It was good, right?

Video on his phone: Brad baits an NFL quarterback during an interview- calls him ‘Patty Cakes’- leading to a fistfight.

MAX V.O.: Kidding? Fantastic.

Plaques and awards and autographed jerseys cover the walls. The centerpiece is a large, glass frame containing six crumpled cocktail napkins, words scribbled all over ‘em.

BRAD: Tell ya, man, I was pumped. I was feeling it.

Struts around the room, towel around his neck like a boxer.

MAX V.O.: Eight million hits.
BRAD: Wish I woulda got a shot in.
MAX V.O.: Ah.
BRAD: Happened so fast.
MAX V.O.: Don’t want a lawsuit, believe me.
BRAD: Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.
MAX V.O.: How does Kimmel sound? Wanna do Kimmel?

Brad plunks down in his plush leather chair.

BRAD: What’s up with Paris?
MAX V.O.: That all you think about?
BRAD: Aside from firing you? Yes.
MAX V.O.: Told ya, I’m taking care of it.
BRAD: Not waiting four years.
MAX V.O.: Wheels are in motion, believe me.
BRAD: Lampley was thir-
MAX V.O.: Just take care of your passport.
BRAD: Hmph.
MAX V.O.: I’ll take care of the rest.
BRAD (grumbles): Need my birth certificate first.
MAX V.O.: Birth certificate?
BRAD: Ah, couldn’t find it. Had to send for a new one.
MAX V.O.: … Jesus…
BRAD: Like six weeks ago.
MAX V.O.: Fucking bureaucrats.
BRAD (big): Can’t miss Paris, Max.

Knock on the door- Brad hangs up. MELANIE MCFEELY (26), the show’s producer, steps inside. A slim brunette with Midwest morality, there’s beauty behind those glasses and pantsuit.

MELANIE: Your mom’s on line two.
BRAD: Great.
MELANIE: Want me to…
BRAD: … Prob’ly gonna ream me out…
MELANIE: … Tell her you’re in a meeting?
BRAD: You’re the best.
MELANIE: Talked to Sacramento. They mailed your birth certificate.
BRAD: Hmph. ‘Bout time. (beat) Whadda I got tonight?
MELANIE: Really need an assistant.
BRAD: Only one I trust.

She scans her phone as Brad checks her out… she’s kinda cute, even if he never really noticed before.

MELANIE: Let’s see, uh… dinner with Lori.
BRAD: Lori?
MELANIE: Podiatrist from Playa.
BRAD: Say that five times fast.
MELANIE: Podi-
BRAD: Melanie?

She stops, blushing.

BRAD: I was kidding.
MELANIE: Oh.
BRAD: Sure it’s not Lisa?
MELANIE: Dentist from Redondo.
BRAD: Ah. Right.

She treads out the door. Brad steals a glimpse at her ass.

TIMELY Receives a Recommend

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Screenplay Rating:

Recommend

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.

PHILLY GIRLZ Brawl at the Strip Club

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EXT. TOPLESS BAR (’THE GOLDEN GOOSE’)

Seedy as hell. The Camaro roars into the parking lot.

SHEILA: Always wanted to see what goes on inside one a’ these.
KATE: Really? Not a big fucking mystery- losers who can’t get laid.
SHEILA: Well, today’s their lucky day.
KATE: (re: STD’s) Yeah, definitely taking the over.

INT. GOLDEN GOOSE

Even seedier inside: buffet of shitty food and a pool table. Rednecks ogle aging strippers on stage… Kate and Sheila amble in- they’re the only women, so everyone gawks at them… an old waitress picks up empty glasses with her flabby tits.

SHEILA: (re: food) Ooh, look at the spread.
KATE: That’s the shit prisons throw out.
SHEILA: They seem to like it.

Gestures to two guys scarfing down beef stroganoff- it’s Mikey and Brownie. They spot Kate and greet her.

KATE: Ah, Jesus Christ.
MIKEY: What the hell you doin’ here?
KATE: Me? What about you? I’m working, dickhead.
BROWNIE: (titillated) You’re a stripper?
KATE: Goddamn idiots.

Sheila looks Mikey up and down. Yeah, this could work.

SHEILA: Mmm, time for my entree.

BACK ROOM.

Middle-aged women with saggy breasts. Kate holds up an old photo of Nick taken a decade ago (it’s all she has).

KATE:… Anyone know this guy? Seen him around? Imagine him 10 years older.
STRIPPER: Whoa! He did NOT age well.
KATE: You know him?
STRIPPER: Whadda you, his wife?
KATE: God, no! PPD.
STRIPPER: Seen him in here a few times. Quiet type. Loves our chicken parm.
KATE: Well, sure. This place made the Michelin guide, three stars.
STRIPPER: (correcting her) It’s food, honey. Not tires.
KATE: Ever come in with anyone?
STRIPPER: Ugh, don’t get me started… one time he comes in with this black guy. Real charmer, ya know?
KATE: Eddie?
STRIPPER: You slept with him, too?
KATE: Wha- no! You’re really bad at guessing.
STRIPPER:… So I take him back to my place, end up loaning the asshole money. (explaining) He’s got a monster-
KATE: Yeah, yeah, I heard. Go on.
STRIPPER: Yeah, so, he gives me this necklace…
KATE: (thinking it’s cum)… Ohmigod…
STRIPPER:… Collateral, ya know. Says it’s worth like 10 grand or something. Next day? My wrist turns green.
KATE: Know where he lives?
STRIPPER: Just seen him in here.
KATE: Great. Fucking great.

O.s., the DJ spins a new tune: Nelly’s ‘Hot in Herre’

FRONT ROOM.

Sheila throws back a shot with Mikey and Brownie.

SHEILA: Ooh, this is my jam right here!

And RUSHES to the stage, chucking aside the stripper who was supposed to go on- She twirls around the pole, shaking her ass-
Guys hoot and holler, flinging dollar bills on the stage-
She stuffs the bills in her pocket-
Kate marches out from the back-
Stops in her tracks seeing Sheila.

KATE: Get your ass down here!
SHEILA: What, gonna arrest me? I’m already in jail, bitch!
KATE: Goddammit, don’t fuck with me!
SHEILA: I got me a ‘get outta jail free card!’… get some, Monopoly Man.

Shakes her ass in front of an old, portly pervert with a white mustache and top hat: a modern day Monopoly Man.
Kate leaps up on stage-
The crowd goes WILD, thinking it’s part of the show-
She grabs hold of Sheila, who slaps her hands away-
Kate yanks on her blouse, RIPPING it-
Mikey SPITS the beef stroganoff out of his mouth-
In SLO-MOTION, it flies through the air…
… Lands on a guy’s neck-
He whirls around and PUNCHES Mikey in the face-
Brownie picks up a chair and SMASHES it on the guy’s chest-
On stage, Sheila retaliates and RIPS Kate’s shirt off-
The crowd WHOOPS-
The frail owner calls the cops as fists and chair and food flies! It’s pandemonium-
A redneck cues up a pool stick, then STABS someone with it-
Another guy tries to pick up a table, but throws out his back (it’s nailed to the floor)-
The old waitress cradles a guy’s head, then titty boxes him, a vicious left-right combo-
Kate and Sheila wrestle on stage, rolling around, YANKING off one another’s clothes…
Just then, Andy and Berto dash in- they got the call. They gape in wonderment at all the chaos…
Berto goes to arrest someone, but Andy holds him back. Chill.

ANDY: Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and take a look around once in a while, you could miss it.
BERTO: Ferris Bueller?
ANDY: Second greatest movie ever made.
BERTO: Guess that makes me Cameron.
ANDY: Sure does, buddy. Sure does.

And ducks as a chair SAILS past his head.

Beauty in a Time of War

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It was February 2003 and America had just invaded Iraq. Protests had broken out across the country railing against Bush and his cronies for this misguided military action. The biggest one was to be staged in New York City. And I would be there, right in the heart of Manhattan, much to the envy of my liberal friends. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the true purpose of my trip… to judge a beauty pageant. 

Now understand, I have zero credentials. Nada. Zilch. At the time I was selling newspaper subscriptions over the phone while cranking out screenplays, a typical LA scene. And it’s not like I had a lot of experience with women. Hardly any, in fact. Heck, I’ve only had one girlfriend- and that was in college. What’s more, I don’t like to judge anyone, least of all beautiful, talented girls who were a decade younger and light years out of my league. Truth is, I had no business attending a beauty pageant, let alone judging one.   

Her name was Merry, the girlfriend of my college buddy Steve.  The non-traditional spelling of her name proved apropros upon meeting the bubbly blonde, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Reese Witherspoon. I bumped into the handsome couple at Duke’s in Malibu on my way to the bathroom. They invited me to join them.

We proceeded to drink heavily, swapping stories. Merry seemed to be intrigued by me- not sexually, but in a kindred, creative soul kind of way. She was, after all, a professional harp player. Thanks to the slew of margaritas, I made her laugh all night, a rare display of my suppressed charms. Merry said she headed the Miss New York City pageant- she was on a zillion boards- and that one of the judges backed out. Despite my utter lack of credentials, she thought I would be a good fit. We exchanged numbers and later, at the end of the evening, a warm embrace.

A week later, Merry mailed me a thick binder, a dossier of the two dozen young women competing in the pageant. The resumes of these girls were impressive, even if they were a bit doctored. Every one of them attended prominent colleges, possessed an arsenal of impressive skills, and volunteered for every charity known to (wo)mankind. Of course, I’d have to spruce up my resume, too. No one wants to be judged by a telemarketer.

I brought the binder to work, flaunting my elevated status as a pageant judge. My friends pointed out their favorite girls, oohing and aahing in between cold calls. They assumed that, as a judge, I would be able to sleep with any of them. Truth be told, the thought dangled in my mind, as well. This is when my progressive co-workers stopped by my cubicle and heaped praise on me for protesting Bush’s illegal war. I nodded, stuffing the binder in my backpack.

No one on the plane commented on the binder. It rested squarely on my lap, the bold-faced font screaming ‘2003 MISS NEW YORK CITY PAGEANT.’ Perhaps because I was seated by the rear bathroom, scarfing down free peanuts with the vengeance of a meth addict, that I was not mistaken for a celebrity. Oh, well. I still had an entire weekend in Manhattan to fool other people, particularly the contestants. I was listed in the judge’s summary as a music video director. Now, I did work on dozens of music videos, so it’s not a total lie. I was the guy who fetched coffee for the actual director, among other subservient tasks. Fortunately, Google hadn’t turned into the juggernaut that is today, so I was probably safe.

Later that night, Merry got us into an underground party somewhere in mid-Manhattan. The venue was a converted warehouse packed with the city’s hippest young socialites. The first thing you saw stepping through the door was a gigantic porno being projected onto the wall. I felt as if I had stumbled onto the Eyes Wide Shut set. In one roped off corner of the room, an 18-year-old Playboy model was giving lap dances. Merry brought me over and introduced me as one of the pageant judges. The model lit up. She performed an exotic dance, grinding on my crotch, eyeing me lustfully. Before she finished, she declared that Merry and I would have sex that night. We insisted that we were just friends.

Merry lived on the Upper West Side, north of 100th street, where the swankiness morphs into sketchiness. It was a three-bedroom apartment that she shared with two male friends. After the party- and a healthy amount of cocktails- we returned to her place. I laid down on the couch, my sleeping quarters for the weekend. Merry freshened up in the bathroom, then proceeded to sit next to me. Actually, she was on top of me. She suggested that I stay in her room, that her bed was much more comfortable. I declined the offer, saying the couch was fine. This parrying went on for at least 10 minutes. Now, I have to say, I was tempted. Blondes aren’t really my type, especially ones with blue eyes, but she was more than pretty enough. And I was more than drunk enough. But I couldn’t do that to Steve. So I remained steadfast. Finally, she got up and went to bed. I heaved a sigh of relief, not sure if I should tell my friend.

The next day, my fellow judges and I interviewed the contestants at a meeting hall in the meatpacking district. There were six of us, from various backgrounds (none of them in the entertainment industry, thankfully). Merry stood to the side, occasionally throwing amorous glances my way. We were both terribly hungover and could have used a few hours more sleep. The interviews accounted for a third of the score. The girls were peppered with questions, generally of the softball variety: “What’s your favorite film?” and so forth.

Considering the nearby protests, there were a few queries lobbed at their political beliefs. The girls had incredible pose, well-schooled in the art of fielding queries. And they were as beautiful as the photos in the binders. I asked one of the contestants, ‘What’s your favorite Beatles,’ which she appropriately responded that you couldn’t really pick just one. I stayed silent for awhile.

Afterwards, the judges and the pageant staff, including Merry, had dinner. The big show was tomorrow, so we kept the drinking to a minimum. The previous night was never brought up again and there were no further offerings of sharing a bed. It was an early night.

The show was held in at a mid-town YMCA. The first event was the talent competition. One girl, a slightly obese African-American, crooned an opera score that blew everyone away. She had also done exceptionally well in the interview session. A few others sang, a few danced. One performed an acting scene, one juggled. My personal favorite- and I think I speak for all the judges, who were all men- was the belly dancer, who gyrated her sexy body at the edge of the stage, right in front of us.

Next was the swimsuit competition. And this proved to be the downfall of the opera singer. I’m not being sexist here. She was at least 20 pounds overweight, not exactly the body type that wins Miss America. And that’s what we were looking for, the girl best prepared to win the whole shebang. This portion of the show winnowed the field to just a handful of contestants. Jessica Lynch seemed to be the front runner. She aced the interview, had a decent dancing routine, and looked fantastic in a bikini. She looked like a pageant winner. What’s interesting is that she shared the name with the Iraq war hero who was rescued around that time.

The final segment was the eveningwear competition. Here the girls would be judged on their poise, along with their answers to what they would do as a pageant winner. Everyone was flawless, racking up near perfect scores. Fairly or not, it was the swimsuit deal that would decide this affair. It was no surprise to anyone in the crowd when a crown was placed on Jessica’s head.

The judges and staff met Jessica afterwards, congratulating her. I gushed something incoherent to her. She was stunning. My type, too, a petite brunette. Those girls generally don’t win the big prizes, though. And sure enough, after capturing the Miss New York title, she didn’t make the first cut in Atlantic City. I, though, was revered at my crappy job. Everyone asked about the pageant. I regaled them with tales of the Eyes Wide Shut party and the belly dancer, among other anecdotes. I told my liberal cohorts that I met Jessica Lynch. “Is she against the war?” I thought for a second. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

FALL RUSH Greek Council scene

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EXT. PENNMORE COLLEGE –- NIGHT

Emily and the ten Pi Omegas saunter across campus, chatting & laughing. They’ve become a tight-knit group, a sisterhood.

ANNA: So, what, this is just a formality?
EMILY: Yep! They’re gonna officially welcome us on campus.
The girls hoot and holler. Passersby sneer at the ‘geeks.’

INT. GYMNASIUM — 20 MINUTES LATER

Meeting of the Greek Council. 12 members sit around a stately table: 6 fraternity presidents and 6 sorority presidents (whom we’ve already seen at the dean’s office). There’s 100 students or so in attendance, including our girls. Dean Andrews sits in the back, trying to be incognito.

MADISON: We’d like to welcome all the new pledges. I got a feeling it’s gonna be a great year for all of us… well, not quite all of us. I do have a bit of bad news. We appreciate the, uh, ‘enthusiasm’- I guess is the right word- of Pi Omega, but you need eight votes and you only got six. (to the guys, accusing) All from horndogs who wanna sleep with middle-aged women. Eww. (to the Pi Omegas) Sorry, guys. Maybe next year, huh?

The crowd murmurs. Emily’s crushed. Anna’s incensed.

ANNA: How can they do that?

One of the presidents, the handsome frat boy (JAKE RYAN), pounds the gavel.

JAKE RYAN: Okay, next order of business: alcohol policy.

A few guys BOO. The dean takes mental notes of the offenders.

JAKE RYAN: I know, I know, believe me.

Emily senses the pain of her distraught sisters. She summons her courage and stands up. All eyeballs turn to her.

JAKE RYAN: We’ll take questions afterwards.

Despite her crippling anxiety, Emily stays on her feet. This is literally (and, well, metaphorically) her stance.

EMILY: I-I’m sorry, I don’t mean to… you said we don’t need another sorority and, uh, I just wanna say… I think we do.

Madison grumbles.

EMILY: No, listen. Look at you guys. You’re all gorgeous. You could all be on the cover of Vogue- that’s a magazine us ancient people read. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but… all the girls in your house look like you: skinny and beautiful and stylish. You got the world on a string. My daughter’s like that… but, uh, not everyone has that, ya know? There needs to be a place for those who aren’t perfect. The outcasts, the ones who don’t fit in… don’t we have a voice, too?

MADISON: (under her breath) Uh, no.
EMILY: ‘Cause let me tell you- and I know from experience- there’s a lot more of us out there than you. And look, if it’s me that’s the problem, I’ll leave right now. I will… I hear the jokes, the wisecracks. I may be old, but I’m not deaf- yet. I know I shouldn’t be here. I’m the biggest misfit of all. So if I’m holding things up, I’ll gladly step aside. Because these girls are wonderful. And if you gave them a chance, you’d know that, too.

Stunned silence. Robin claps, shattering the awkward hush. A few people in the crowd join her. Anna leaps to her feet.

ANNA: It’s all of us or nothing. You’re the reason I’m here. You’re the reason we’re all here.

The other Pi Omegas stand up in solidarity. A majority of the audience bursts into cheers, much to the dean’s chagrin.

ASHLEY: Wish my sorority was like that.
ROBIN: I call for a new vote.
MADISON: You can’t-
ASHLEY: I change mine to ‘yes.’
ROBIN: Me, too.
MADISON: I thought we were all in this together.
ROBIN: We are.

And stares down Madison.

JAKE RYAN: Okay, that makes it 8-4. (to the Pi Omegas) We’ll give you a trial period- one month. But you’re gonna need to be sanctioned by a national chapter.

The Pi Omegas CHEER wildly as Dean Andrews chafes.