Frequency Page #10

JOHN:

Gordo, if this is you, so help me...

FRANK (O.S.)

What the hell does Gordy have to do with

it?

John's POV - top of radio - in FADED PEN, on a piece of

masking tape, is written: "WB2YXB"

JOHN:

What'd you say your station...uh, your

call letters were?

FRANK (O.S.)

W...B...2...YXB.

The call letters hang in the air. A breath, then...

JOHN:

Now you listen to me. My name is John

Francis Sullivan, I live at 1060 41st,

where I've lived my whole life. And I

saw the first game of the '69 Series at

my Uncle Butch's house with my father...

FRANK (O.S.)

What?

JOHN:

29-years ago.

CUT TO:

Frank dropping his cigarette in the ashtray. It rolls out

and lies smoldering on the desk. He doesn't even notice.

FRANK:

29 years...?

BACK ON:

JOHN:

My dad's name was Frank Patrick Sullivan,

he was a fire fighter and a die-hard Mets

fan. And every night when I went to bed

he sang to me...

(softly, almost singing)

Take me out to the ball game, take me out

with the crowd...

Beat.

FRANK (O.S.)

What the hell...

JOHN:

I'm dreaming this. Sh*t, this is a

dream.

FRANK (O.S.)

I'm not dreaming.

John reaches out to touch the radio. But he stops, his hand

hovering just above it.

JOHN:

So you're Frank Sullivan, huh? It's 1969

and you're sitting at your desk in the

study, just chewin' the rag?

BACK ON FRANK.

He smells smoke, sees the cigarette burning a hole in the

desk. Spooked, Smokey the Bear just started a fire.

FRANK:

Christ!

Frank beats out the flame with the newspaper.

JOHN (O.S.)

What's going on?

FRANK:

(lying)

Nothing...I just spilled something.

CUT TO:

A DISTINCTIVE BURN SCAR GRADUALLY MORPHING ONTO JOHN'S DESK.

John pushes the Bushmills to the side, staring at the scar.

It hits him - hard.

JOHN:

Oh my god.

FRANK (O.S.)

What?

JOHN:

You just burned the desk.

FRANK (O.S.)

What's happening?

John rubs his fingers over the old burn scar.

JOHN:

You burnt the desk...I can see it.

Eerie quiet, the only sound is the rain outside John's

window.

BACK ON:

FRANK:

That's impossible.

JOHN (O.S.)

What if it's not...

ON JOHN:

reaching out, touching the radio.

JOHN (CONT'D)

Dad...?

FRANK (O.S.)

Johnny...?

Shockwave. A long moment of absorption. INTERCUT Frank and

John.

FRANK (CONT'D)

How could this be happening?

JOHN:

I don't know.

FRANK:

We gotta be bouncing off the mother sun

spot of all time.

JOHN:

Sun spot?

FRANK:

Yeah, that's how Hams work.

JOHN:

Wait a sec...there was something on the

news. Something about this space

anomaly. I think they said it was

connected to some storm in '69.

Frank glances at DAILY NEWS HEADLINE - SPACE STORM. He says

nothing for a long beat, struggling to understand.

FRANK:

You sound...ground up...?

JOHN:

I'm thirty-five years old.

FRANK:

Thirty-five? That would make it...

JOHN:

1998.

Frank pulls back from the radio...

FRANK:

1998...? This is wrong. Who are you?

Why are you doing this?

JOHN:

I'm not doing anything.

(beat)

Look, I don't know what's going on. But

I swear on my life, I"m here at your old

desk, on your Ham, in our house, right

now...in 1998.

John's voice has a conviction that Frank cannot deny.

FRANK:

It's really you, isn't it?

JOHN:

Yeah...I think so.

Silence. Both men trying to wrap their minds around the

reality of the situation. Slowly accepting.

FRANK:

Thirty-five? Jesus, you're almost as old

as I am...

(long beat)

What's your life like? You married? Got

kids?

Beat.

JOHN:

No, not yet.

FRANK:

Too busy playin' ball, huh?

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