Life as a House Page #6

George glances around the office, angered by the thought he's

being fired.

GEORGE:

I've been here twenty years.

BRYAN:

Maybe that's too long.

GEORGE:

(hopeful)

Maybe...?

BRYAN:

That's too long.

George nods as he stares at Bryan.

BRYAN (CONT'D)

Listen, they decided on a week a year

severance, but I got them to twenty-six.

That's six months salary, George.

Medical and everything for six months.

You can learn all you need to on the

computer long before that. Maybe find a

job closer to home.

Bryan is rattled by George's blank stare. He takes his glass

of orange juice and sits back in his chair, taking a sip, all

the while keeping an eye on George.

GEORGE:

My wife left me because I wasn't...very

emotional. I kept trying to explain that

my father sucked all the emotion from me.

Drunks do that, sometimes. Make their

kids afraid. Make them unwilling to

express themselves.

Bryan knows he's supposed to say something, he just can't

seem to figure out what.

BRYAN:

Oh.

GEORGE:

How old are you?

BRYAN:

Forty.

GEORGE:

We were probably in school together. You

went to Berkley?

Bryan lights up at the sound of his Alma matter.

BRYAN:

Class of eighty-six! I didn't know you

were there.

GEORGE:

I was a sophomore when I got the call my

parents were dead.

This is not the direction Bryan had hoped the conversation

was headed.

GEORGE (CONT'D)

My dad had a blood alcohol level of .18.

A little high. Drove right into oncoming

traffic. Killed my mother with him. A

lady in another car. Hurt her daughter.

A five-year old girl. I think about her

still.

Bryan wants this to end. He leans forward with a whisper.

BRYAN:

Listen...maybe I can get you a year.

GEORGE:

I hate this job.

BRYAN:

What are you talking about? You love

your job.

GEORGE:

From the day I started...to today. Can't

stand it.

Bryan is perplexed as George stands.

BRYAN:

Then it sounds like I'm doing you a

favor.

GEORGE:

It may sound that way, but I react out of

fear. My life has nothing to do with

what I like or don't like. You haven't

been listening, have you?

BRYAN:

I didn't know there would be a quiz,

George.

GEORGE:

For everything.

BRYAN:

Well, I feel better about this now.

GEORGE:

Good. I was hoping for that.

Relieved and not understanding anything about irony, Bryan

stands and extends his hand. George shakes Bryan's hand

without malice.

GEORGE (CONT'D)

I've got one favor to ask.

BRYAN:

What can I do for you, George?

GEORGE:

I built my first model here when I was

twenty. There are hundreds of them on

shelves around the office. Twenty years

of my life. I was wondering if I might

be able to pick a few to keep, to take

home? Only the ones that really mean

something to me.

Bryan recoils slightly from the request.

BRYAN:

Oh, well...those are...I mean, we don't

get to keep our work. I could maybe ask

them if you could choose one. But, you

know, frankly George, you were the best.

Computer models can't begin to match the

beauty you gave yours. They're a part of

this firm. They inspire me. I go out

there and sometimes just stare at

something I've designed. It amazes me.

I would miss that too much.

(beat)

Look, I may be going out on a limb, but

you go out there and look them over,

every single one of them and pick the one

you like the best and take it with you.

Just run it by me first, just in case,

you know...but I'm sure it'll be okay.

GEORGE:

Thank you.

BRYAN:

Well, it's the least I can do.

GEORGE:

Yes, it is.

George nods and leaves. Bryan looks lost and guilty again.

INT. BENSON, KIDDLER, FEINSILBER AND ASSOICATES - MORNING

George walks around the maze of cubicles back to his own. He

finds an empty box and starts to pack. Against a wall, a

large rack is filled with spools of architectural plans.

George pulls one of the plans down, rolls it out and detaches

the wooden spool. Without warning and with a fury hard to

fathom, he proceeds to bat and smash a shelf of beautifully

rendered models. Heads pop up in other cubicles as George

walks out of his own and armed with a frightening rage,

methodically attacks model after model resting on shelves

just below massive plate glass windows that frame downtown

Los Angeles. Steven Gardner, who asked for his model without

grass, rushes to within feet of George as he witness his

creation deconstruct into shards of cardboard and plastic.

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