Runaway Bride

FADE IN:

EXT. AN IMPOSSIBLE EXPANSE OF MARYLAND FARMLAND - DAY

The wind rustles the endless field of corn, blows over the

freshly mown meadow of soybeans, and magically sways a copse of

trees.

It's a Fall after-noon. A SUDDEN POUNDING OF GALLOPING HOOVES

breaks the peace and... A HORSE and RIDER burst between the rows

of corn into the meadow. They are running for their lives.

CLOSE ON:

The rider is a bride -- a beautiful woman dressed in a

disheveled wedding gown, it's train tattered and flying like a

knight's banner out behind her. This is MAGGIE CARPENTER.

The horse is frothing and wild-eyed, like the bride, who turns

to look behind her in terror. The horse's labored breathing

mingles with Maggie's panicked gasps.

We see a WEDDING BOUQUET fly into a ditch as the horse thunders

on. Maggie clings to the reins. She looks as though she is

running from the devil himself.

FADE TO BLACK:

EXT. IKE'S APARTMENT BUILDING - DAY

Establishing.

CUT TO:

EXT. IKE'S APARTMENT BUILDING - DAY - ESTABLISHING SHOT

EXT. NEW YORK STREET - DAY

IKE (V.O.)

Hey, Fisher, pick up. I have some

column ideas I want to bounce off you.

Not there? Okay. Listen I'm thinking

of writing about those mind-numbing

informercials that are always on.

Ike walks out of his apartment building talking on cell phone.

IKE (cont'd)

What do you think? Good idea, right?

Boring, down to death, pointless -- It

sucks.

Ike yells at a CONSTRUCTION WORKER.

IKE (cont'd)

If you guys are here any longer,

they're gonna make you sign a lease.

CONSTRUCTION WORKER

Your column should be so funny.

Ike turns and walks down the street, talking into cell phone.

IKE:

Okay, I was also thinking I might write

about...

He spots a RICH LADY with tons of diamonds getting out of a

Limousine, talking to a CHAUFFEUR. He goes up to her.

IKE (cont'd)

Excuse me. I was thinking of doing an

article on limousines. What would you

say to people who never had a chance to

drive in a limo?

They walk up to her DOORMAN.

LADY:

I'm sorry, I don't know any people like

that.

Ike walks off. They stare at him as he goes.

EXT. ANOTHER NEW YORK STREET - DAY

Ike's talking on the phone to his friend's machine again.

IKE:

(into phone)

Fisher? Come on -- I know you're

sitting there laughing at me. Pick up.

I want to run an idea past you.

Ike continues walking now in the full panic of writer's block.

He pleads into his friend's answering machine as he walks.

IKE (cont'd)

(into phone)

I just could use someone to toss it

back and forth with for a few minutes,

get the juice flowing, help me. I have

an hour and twenty-seven minutes and

fifty-two seconds. Hello?

He walks away from the t-shirt table towards the bar. The

Vendor calls out to him.

T-SHIRT VENDOR

Hey, Ike, when are you going to put me

in an article?

IKE:

When your t-shirts stop shrinking.

Ike enters the bar. The Woman drops the shirt she was holding

and walks off with her children. The T-shirt Vendor goes back

to selling his shirts.

INT. NEW YORK BAR - LATE DAY

Ike sits at the bar speaking to an attractive Woman nearby, a

MAN puts is USA Today on the bar and addresses the BARTENDER.

MAN:

I see photos of a lot of dead writers

on these walls. Got any living ones?

I have a story to tell that could win

one of them a Pulitzer.

(then, with enthusiasm)

Picture this, if you will. A small

town in Maryland, a sleepy little

village, within that a hardware store...

The Man continues speaking as Ike and the woman continue their

conversation.

WOMAN:

So what's in store for us in tomorrow's

column?

IKE:

I don't know yet. I'm kind of a last-

minute man. Ideas don't flow until an

hour or two before deadline.

The Woman gets up and begins throwing darts.

WOMAN:

(interrupting)

This is very interesting. You get your

ideas for your column from life. You

start up a conversation with a woman in

a bar, attack her choice of reading

material, try and get a rise out of her

while you contemplate whether or not

she's worth hitting on.

IKE:

No, I can't hit on you until I get an

idea.

She starts throwing darts.

WOMAN:

That's flattering.

IKE:

No, you don't understand.

The Woman goes to her bar stool, gathering her bag and leaves a

tip for the Bartender.

WOMAN:

I think I do understand. So my not

responding to your baiting me will

inspire one of those potential bitter

diatribes you love to write about women

and all the things we do to drive men

crazy?

IKE:

(taken aback)

I don't write bitter diatribes about

women... very often.

She whacks him with a newspaper, then shakes his hand.

WOMAN:

Only when the ideas aren't flowing,

huh? Well, it was very nice to meet

you, one-minute man.

The Woman leaves the bar.

IKE:

(as she exits)

That's last minute man.

(then, louder)

And it's the quality that counts.

BARTENDER:

You know, for a good looking man, you

strike out a lot.

MAN:

I've seen much worse.

The phone rings. Te Bartender answers it as Ike sits back on

his bar stool. Ike grabs the woman's magazine that she left on

the bar and starts glancing at it. The Man at the bar has heard

the whole thing.

MAN (cont'd)

I said, I've seen much worse.

Ike looks at the Man with reservation. The Man is George

Swilling.

IKE:

Excuse me?

MAN:

The brush-off.

Ike gets up and moves to the dart board. He removes the darts.

MAN (cont'd)

I've witnessed far more treacherous and

nefarious exits than that. At least

she castigated you in private.

IKE:

Not as private as I thought.

Ike turns slightly, giving the man his back.

IKE (cont'd)

Kevin, you've got some napkins?

BARTENDER:

Writing or wiping?

IKE:

Give me a pen.

The Bartender gives him cocktail napkins and a pen. Ike starts

making notes. Ike looks up from his writing. The Man gets up

and starts throwing darts.

MAN:

(throwing darts hard)

Ah, come on. They deserve it. They

love you, they hate you, they're hot,

they're cold, they're high, they're

low...

IKE:

... They're up, they're down. It's

really fun making this list with you,

but I've got a column to go write.

BARTENDER:

Ike.

MAN:

(undeterred)

But you don't have a really superb idea!

Well, there's a girl from my hometown

you could write about.

Ike moves to the Bartender and pays him.

BARTENDER:

(to Man)

Excuse me, we don't need any new ideas.

MAN:

She likes to dump grooms right at the

altar. They call her "The Runaway

Bride".

Both Ike and Bartender turn and stare.

MAN:

She performed the travesty seven or

eight times. Right at the altar she

turns around and runs like hell.

Bolts.

Ike turns and heads for the door. The Man calls after him,

getting up from his stool without stopping his enthusiastic

story.

MAN (cont'd)

Adios. Plows down the aisle, knocking

old ladies out of her way like the

running of the bulls at Pamplona. And

guess what?

Rate this script:1.5 / 2 votes