Bringing Out the Dead Page #2

Larry stands, breathing heavy, looks for a phone. Frank turns

to notice relatives and neighbors standing around.

FRANK (CONT'D)

Do you have any music?

MARY:

What?

FRANK:

Music. I think it helps if you play

something he liked.

MARY:

John, play the Sinatra.

John enters crying. Mary repeats softly:

MARY:

Play the Sinatra.

John exits. Frank notices Mary for the first time: blond

hair dyed black, cut short, loose fitting tank dress, black

makeup running down her cheeks. He notices her prom picture,

glances back to Mary: it seems she hasn't smiled since that

day eight years before. Something special about her, that

something that hits you right away.

"September of My Years" plays from the other room. Frank

continues massaging Mr. Burke's chest (now to Sinatra beat),

even though it's hopeless. Larry returns:

LARRY:

It's OK, Frank. We can call it. Eighty-

three.

Frank feels something strange, looks into Burke's pupils,

checks his neck pulse, wrist pulse. His eyes go to Larry:

FRANK:

No we can't. He's got a pulse.

LARRY:

No sh*t.

Larry checks the monitor: the green line up and down. Mary

senses a change in status:

MARY:

Is he going to be alright?

FRANK:

(not encouraging)

His heart's beating.

A distant siren signals the arrival of backup. Frank turns

to Larry:

FRANK (CONT'D)

Have 'em bring up a stretcher.

He looks from Mary back to Mr. Burke--breathing but comatose.

CUT TO:

INT. AMBULANCE--NIGHT

Larry climbing through the back doors, sitting in the jumpseat

at the stretcher's head as Frank hangs IV bags, replugs EKG

wires that have come loose.

Frank looks up, sees Mary entering; he takes her arm, turns

her toward the rear doors:

FRANK:

Help your family. Ride with your

mother and brother.

(she hesitates)

Help your family. They need you more.

Help yourself.

Mary steps out, stands in the red flashing light as Larry

closes the door, Frank climbs in the driver's seat.

CUT TO:

EXT. SECOND AVENUE--NIGHT

The EMS bus cruises up Second. Frank checks the side mirror:

John, Mary and Mrs. Burke pull behind in a black Ford. Seeing

their faces, Frank flips the lights and siren on. It's too

late to help Mr. Burke, but it's important to the family

that it look urgent. Frank watches passing lights, cars,

faces:

FRANK (V.O.)

I needed to concentrate because my

mind tended to wander on these short

trips. It was the neighborhood I

grew up in and where I had worked

most as a paramedic, and it held

more ghosts per square foot than any

other.

CUT TO:

EXT. OUR LADY OF MERCY--NIGHT

Larry and Frank's 13 Zebra ambulance lined up beside two

others outside a blazing "Emergency" sign on the crowded

side street.

CUT TO:

INT. MERCY ER--NIGHT

Every large city has a hospital Emergency Room so replete

with trauma, violence and suffering it picks up the sobriquet

"Knife and Gun Club." On Manhattan's Lower East Side it's

our Lady Of Mercy, aka, Our Lady of Misery.

ER:
a white-lit cement box painted yellow and decorated with

old framed Playbills. Four rows of six plastic chairs face a

TV bolted and chained to the ceiling. The seats are filled

with backed-up drunks, assault victims and "regulars,"

bleeding and spilling over against the walls and the floor,

getting up to ask their status or going out to throw up and

have a smoke.

Larry and Frank wheeling Burke in, two IV lines, each

connected to an elbow, tangled in EKG cables. Two LACERATED

RUSSIANS scramble out of their way as they approach GRISS,

the large black sunglassed security guard. He looks up from

his television guide:

GRISS:

Hey partner. Your man does not look

well. They're not gonna appreciate

you inside.

FRANK:

(pumping Ambu-bag)

Griss, let us in.

GRISS:

Things are backing up.

Griss pushes a button, activating the automatic door, striking

the bandaged leg of a man lying down on a stretcher in the

hall. Larry and Frank wheel Burke inside. A pleading family

tries to follow. Griss stretches out his hand:

GRISS (CONT'D)

You can't go in there, folks.

Mary, John and Mrs. Burke rush in from the street, hoping

some miracle has occurred during the drive to the hospital,

approach the sign-in desk.

Frank and Larry pass four stretchers lined against the wall--

a passage nicknamed "Skid Row" leading past triage NURSE

CONSTANCE's station.

NURSE CONSTANCE:

Just keep moving. Don't even slow

down.

Nurse Constance turns back to the nervous man seated beside

her:

NURSE CONSTANCE (CONT'D)

Sir, you say you've been snorting

cocaine for three days and now you

feel your heart is beating too fast

and you would like us to help you.

To tell the truth, I don't see why I

should. If I'm mistaken, correct me.

Did we sell you the cocaine? Did we

push it up your nose?

Larry and Frank slow at the last Skid Row stretchers. On

one, NOEL, a young dark-skinned man with chaotic mess of

dreadlocks, pulls feverishly at his restraints:

NOEL:

For God's sake, give me some water.

From the next stretcher a man with feet swollen purple like

prize eggplants replies:

BIG FEET:

Shut up! Goddamn civilians.

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