Mumford Page #23

Mumford hands her another paper, which she heaves with all

her limited strength, missing the front porch badly. Mumford,

who can't get enough of watching her, doesn't notice at first.

SOFIE:

That wasn't so good.

Mumford snaps out of it. He goes up on the lawn and flips

the paper deftly onto the porch. As they continue --

MUMFORD:

You're doing great.

SOFIE:

I don't know if I'm going to make it

the whole way.

MUMFORD:

It doesn't matter. Go on.

SOFIE:

Oh... this makes me sound irrational,

which is probably right, but there

was something about him saying this --

it was maybe the millionth time he'd

told me about some preference of

his. Well, I was so... tired of it.

(memories)

Seems like my whole life someone's

been telling me... I'm just not

getting it right. Can we rest for a

second?

She leans against the iron handrail on some front steps,

breathing hard.

SOFIE:

You're purposely making me talk while

we do this...

(Mumford nods)

...because you think this is good

for me...

(nods again)

...and you're a sadistic bastard...

MUMFORD:

Yes.

SOFIE:

...who thinks there's nothing really

wrong with me.

MUMFORD:

Oh, there's something wrong with

you, all right. Especially after

hearing that dream of yours, about

the Roto-Rooter.

She laughs. They're playing with each other.

SOFIE:

That was really bad, wasn't it?

MUMFORD:

Disgusting.

SOFIE:

And I'll bet you can interpret the

whole thing

MUMFORD:

It's pretty obvious to a trained

professional.

Sofie starts walking again, taking another newspaper from

his sack. He points to the next house.

SOFIE:

I hate those dreams where everything

means something.

Sofie heaves the paper squarely onto the porch. She turns to

him with pride, but when she sees the way he looks at her,

she glances away, uncomfortable.

MUMFORD:

Is that when you split up?

SOFIE:

No, that'd be a good story, but that

was just the beginning of the end.

We went on for another year or so.

Mumford hands her another paper and indicates the next house.

SOFIE:

So whose route is this?

MUMFORD:

Brady Peck's. Fourteen years old.

Lives next door.

SOFIE:

And he's where?

MUMFORD:

In the capitol for Boy's Nation.

Five days. Why?

SOFIE:

(heaves another paper)

I'm thinking a gal could make a good

living doing this. How hard could it

be squeezing out some fourteen year

old?

MUMFORD:

You like it?

SOFIE:

It's all right.

MUMFORD:

Then you can expect me at 5:30

tomorrow morning.

SOFIE:

And this is legitimate therapy?

MUMFORD:

Therapy? Hell no, I just don't want

to do it alone.

INT. MUMFORD'S OFFICE - DAY

TIGHT ON RAPID SERIES OF IMAGES on slick, glossy magazine

pages:
each change of image is punctuated by the AMPLIFIED

SNAP of the page being turned, like a gunshot. We're SO CLOSE

to the images we can't tell when the magazines change --

from Glamour to Vogue to Us to Mademoiselle to W to Vanity

Fair. And it doesn't matter. Whether the images are ads or

fashion spreads or celebrity candids, the look is the same --

jaded, hip, disinterested, apathetic, either impossibly buff

or anorexic, but always severely beautiful. The PAGE TURNING

starts at a fevered pitch and becomes even more intense.

Finally --

MUMFORD (V.O.)

What is it, Nessa?

The IMAGES CONTINUE.

NESSA (V.O.)

Isn't she amazing? That is such a

wicked look.

MUMFORD (V.O.)

What do you want me to see?

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