The Big Welcome

By IamThatGuy

All is quiet and dark. But a RUMBLE growing, though we can't quite tell if it's horses, water or a roller coaster.

INT. A subway - night

It's not too full. Some people chat, some read. Most stare.



Insomnia is worst on Sunday nights.
Everyone stayed up late trying to finish
their work during the week. The weekend
hit and they stay up all night juice every
moment. Drinking into oblivion.
And now Sunday night. All over again.

EXT. New york city - Night



And she doesn't care


People, lots of them, moving about. Some are starting work, others are finishing. Twilight of the sub-world. The crowd is moving too quickly to notice when exactly everyone disappeared.


We see her. She is dressed like she wants us to believe she stepped out of 1938. And maybe we do. Her name is CLARA.

MUSIC FADES IN, the kind of wailing trumpet that lives only in New York. Her heels click along with the rhythm. Growing louder as she walks the empty hall.


THE TRUMPET PLAYER. He is not young.

She stops to listen to him. Her clutch remains in her hand. He does not stop playing, but makes eye contact.

He steals a glance at her wallet.

She walks away.

The station empty as she rounds the corner. The Trumpet Player quits for the moment.


We're moving.

Low light.

A silhouette. It could be a sky scraper.

Back into semidarkness.

Then a second silhouette.

A MAN'S FOOT in DRESS SHOES slides into vision. The two towers are chair legs. He has wrapped his foot around one.

WOMAN'S FEET in BLACK HEELS step into frame. She is straddling him, but we see only their ankles.

But we hear their breathing.

Then his feet plant firmly on the floor and stands. Her feet glide up and disappear as he picks her up.

int. An apartment - night

A plain, light colored wall, blank.

Then there she is, back against the wall. He's pressing her, moving after her as he pushes all of her. She snaked around him. He may not be suave but he is driven.

A floor lamp is knocked over as he plunges past it.

But, wait, this is not the same moment, nor necessarily the same people. What's left of his clothes is casual, not the slacks and dress shoes of before.

She, however, is dressed retro, the same style, but not same clothes, as she wore in the subway car.

She bumps her head on the wall, only hard enough to make a thud.

He stops for a moment.

She laughs.

BEAT. Is she laughing at him? Or as lovers do, for no reason in particular.

She kisses him.

She slides down him.

INT. a bedroom - night

Man and Woman in bed.

She is awake, he is not.

This is a new man. The hair is unkempt, a different color and he has a beard. An altogether different person than either of the first.

She looks at him curiously, almost like an exhibit at the zoo. She quietly removes the sheets.

Her bare feet touch the floor.

She picks up garments of clothes as she passes them.

Underwear; she simply steps into and continues walking, an incredibly fluid and practiced motion.

Bra; stalkings; shoes; skirt; blouse; coat.

In the foreground and background of this is empty pizza boxes, beer bottles, and tangled video game remotes.

She is at the front door. She is in the clothes that she wore from when we first laid eyes on her.

God help her if she looks a little rumpled, even that looks classy.

She stares at the door. There are a handful of locks, dead bolts, and assorted safekeeping mechanisms.

It would be easy to forget how each one turns even if you lived there.

She gives one a shot. It clicks open with a bang.

She looks back at the sleeping grizzly. Nothing.

Lock number two, an easy slide. No problem.

Lock three, another dead bolt. A loud click. How come this apartment is so small?

Lock four. Last dead bolt. A loud click. He rustles, but barely.

She pulls at the door knob. It doesn't budge.

Again, she yanks, both hands this time and it pops open with an ear piercing screech, and stops short with a bang. There is a slide lock at the very top of the door.


(pretty hungover, O.S.)

Hey... wait.

She closes the door so she can unslide the lock. It's just as hard to get closed as it was to open.

She puts her shoulder into it and it slams shut.

Shit, this door is tall and she is kinda short, even with modest heels. She tries for the slide. No luck.


Hang on a sec.

He's really awake now.

She goes for a chair. Stands on it, unslides the lock.

Down now, moves the chair. Yanks on the door, it squeals open.


What's you're name?

As he enters, the door closes.

He sighs and pads back into his room.




She's welcoming. But impatient.

The same time and place as we opened with, near dawn.

She is putting on make up and smoothing out her dress.

TRAVIS is at the other end of the car. He is reading a book.

She puts away her make up and then looks at him.

He looks up and makes eye contact.

She smiles, and looks away.


(v.o. Cont'd)

And irresistible.

He goes back to reading.

He stops reading, stands and walks towards her.

The train stops, doors open and she walks out.

He glances at the subway map next to the door.

His watches her walk beyond the platform.



Stand clear of the closing doors.

He looks at her again, she's almost gone.

He jumps off the train as the doors close.


He makes strides to catch up to her.


He watches her look at The Trumpet Player.

He slows.

She walks on and beyond the corner.

He picks up stride again, as The Trumpet Player quits.

Travis breezes past him and drops in a dollar bill into the bucket.

The Trumpet Player reaches down and picks up the money. It's a five spot.

Travis turns the corner.


The Big Welcome

Created: Feb 06, 2010

Tags: screenplay, script, new york city, short, film noir, subway, she

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