Halt and Catch Fire

TEASER:

INT. GLASS-WALLED OFFICE -- DAY

ANGLE ON A MAN IN A BLACK SUIT SITTING BEHIND A DESK

Smarmy gym-and-suntan disciple with a conservative haircut.

This is DALE BARNES (38).

SOMEONE FACES HIM

Standing. JOE MACMILLAN (34). A man these black suits were

made for. But despite the jawline, the executive contour

hair, he’s a million miles away right now.

BARNES:

C’mon, Joe. It’s just business.

Without a word, MacMillan turns and leaves through the glass

door.

INT. PRISTINE HALLWAY -- CONTINUOUS

HIS BLACK WINGTIPS

Walking at a swift clip, toes glancing against the bottom of

the frame as they move forward in rhythm.

A BLACK BRIEFCASE

Suspended by the grip of MacMillan’s hand. White shirt cuff

exposed a flawless quarter inch from a black suit sleeve.

EXT. HEADQUARTERS ENTRANCE -- CONTINUOUS

MacMillan steps outside to a cement walkway leading out to a

vast employee parking lot.

He reaches the walkway’s end. Stops.

Just stands there.

FADE UP SUPER:
“Armonk, New York. 1981.”

EXT. PARKING LOT -- LATER

SLAMMING closed the trunk of a black 1980 Audi Quattro.

HIS HAND REACHES INSIDE THE SUIT BREAST POCKET

Pulls out a pair of Serengeti sunglasses.

Places them over his eyes.

2.

EXT. NEW ORCHARD ROAD -- LATER

The Audi ROARS past the company entrance sign: IBM.

CUT TO:

EXT. RURAL NEW YORK HIGHWAY -- LATER

The GROWING ROAR of the Audi. It appears, rockets down a two-

line asphalt in a matter of seconds, kicking up dead leaves.

INT. AUDI QUATTRO -- CONTINUOUS

ANGLE ON MacMillan’s hand, pulling the floor shifter down

into fourth gear, the road’s reflection in his glasses.

CUT TO:

EXT. COASTAL HIGHWAY -- LATER

The Audi traverses a wooded lane that opens onto the rocky

coast of the Atlantic Ocean. Going faster.

INT. AUDI QUATTRO -- CONTINUOUS

MacMillan is blank as he throws the car into fifth. The blur

of water stretches to the horizon outside his window.

THROUGH THE WINDSHIELD, an approaching hard bank turn.

Nothing but guard rail. Not a problem at normal speed.

ANGLE ON the speedometer climbing...

EXT. COASTAL HIGHWAY -- CONTINUOUS

The Audi SMASHES through the guard rail somewhere around 110.

A direct hit. No swerve. Intentional.

The rail gives like paper and the Audi is now a missile being

shot out over the white water of the coastline.

It sails high, engine REVVED and floored before...

THE FRONT END HITS THE WATERLINE LIKE A BRICK WALL

DESTROYING half of the car with a THUNDER CLAP.

A few seconds pass before lapping waves begin to fold around

the vehicle and its driver. No movement within. Completely

arrested.

END TEASER:

3.

ACT I:

INT. HONKY TONK BAR -- NIGHT

SUPER:
TEN MONTHS LATER

An honest to God COWBOY drops in a quarter, makes his punch

button selections on a jukebox. Two seconds pass until the

machine lets loose with STEEL GUITAR and MERLE HAGGARD.

The cowboy takes his mug of beer from atop the juke and

actually moseys through a late night crowd of legitimate and

gregarious country western folk spanning generations.

ANGLE ON the bar itself, tracking across its patrons--all

tough men in hats, jeans--ladies with perms, chewing gum,

heavy eyeshadow.

THE LAST MAN AT THE BAR sticks out like a sore thumb. He

isn’t country; hell, he ain’t much of anything. Ragged hair,

big glasses, thick unkempt mustache. Lots of empty mugs.

This is GORDON CLARK (31).

CLARK:

(to bartender)

Can I get another Shiner?

A fresh mug of beer slides his way but it doesn’t seem to

cheer him up any. A YOUNG BUCK (early 20’s) sallies up next

to him, square head in a wide-brimmed hat.

YOUNG BUCK:

(calling back)

HEY, WHATCHOO WANT?

A chubby YOUNG GIRL (same age) appears next to him, jostling

Clark as she squeezes in.

YOUNG GIRL:

(thick accent)

I dunno, gimme a beer or somethin’.

The young buck holds up two fingers for the bartender. Then

glances over at Clark. He has to talk over the music:

YOUNG BUCK:

You down an’ out, friend?

CLARK:

Guess you could say that.

4.

YOUNG GIRL:

(gross)

What’s wrong, sugar?

CLARK:

I hate my job.

YOUNG BUCK:

WHAT’S THAT?

CLARK:

I HATE MY JOB.

YOUNG BUCK:

Yeah? Whatchoo do?

Clark shakes his head, trying to return to his solitary beer.

YOUNG BUCK (CONT’D)

(to girl)

What’d he say?

YOUNG GIRL:

He didn’t say nothin’.

YOUNG BUCK:

(to Clark, louder)

Hey, whatchoo do?

CLARK:

I’m a systems programmer.

YOUNG BUCK:

What?

CLARK:

Computers.

YOUNG BUCK:

Oh man, that’s some future sh*t.

Lull in the conversation as the two youngins get their beers.

YOUNG BUCK (CONT’D)

So whatchoo sad about? Computers,

man, I tell you what. You gon’ make

some big ol’ money with that.

CLARK:

(turning to them more)

I’ll tell you what I’m sad about.

(MORE)

5.

CLARK (CONT'D)

I’m sad because right now I’d

rather be in Northern California

living the sweet life, as opposed

to sitting in some Hee Haw rerun.

(pause)

No offense. I’m having a bad night.

YOUNG GIRL:

California! Ain’t Reagan from

California? That’s one good thing

come out of the Left Coast.

CLARK:

Reagan? You know he opposed equal

rights for women, right? That’s

real enlightened.

(swigs beer, to girl)

You are a woman, aren’t you?

The young buck’s face drops, as does the girl’s. Clark takes

another gulp of beer as the buck steps toward him, ready.

YOUNG BUCK:

You wanna apologize to the lady?

CLARK:

Would it make a difference?

The buck seizes Clark by the shirt, pulls him to his feet.

YOUNG BUCK:

Not for you.

CLARK:

Then no.

And the buck BELTS HIM ACROSS THE FACE HARD, sending Clark to

the sawdust floor.

The crowd MURMURS as Clark rises, his nose badly bloodied.

But he grins a little bit as he steadies himself on a chair.

Then...

HE SMASHES THE CHAIR ACROSS THE YOUNG BUCK’S BACK

Knocking him to the floor. Male patrons tackle Clark back

down and proceed to kick the sh*t out of him.

CUT TO:

INT. DALLAS COUNTY LOCK-UP -- LATER

A heavy metal door swings open with a BUZZ.

6.

DALLAS DEPUTY:

Gordon Clark.

THE DALLAS DEPUTY waits, then leads Clark out of the holding

area, tight grip on the programmer’s arm.

CLARK:

Hi, honey.

REVEAL DONNA CLARK (30), facing him, arms crossed. She’s got

the pretty face of a high school sweetheart, but the grim

frown of someone who’s put up with a lot of sh*t.

CUT TO:

INT. DONNA’S STATION WAGON -- LATER

Donna drives in silence, Clark next to her, his nose taped.

CLARK:

You didn’t have to bring the kids

with you.

ANGLE ON their two daughters belted in the backseat, HALEY

(4) and JOANIE (6), spitting images of their mother, blonde

hair and all. They’re in pajamas, out cold.

DONNA:

(without looking at him)

I figured they’d never been to

Dallas County Jail before, so why

not bring them along.

CLARK:

C’mon, Donna.

DONNA:

You’re right, I should’ve asked the

neighbors to watch them at 2 a.m.

‘Hey, can you take Haley and Joanie

for a bit, Gordon got in a bar

fight again.’

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