Swingers Page #11

ROB:

It's like "Hi, Mom. I'm not going to be

starring in that sit-com and, oh by the

way, I'm Goofy. Send more money."

They split up and both over-chip the green miserably.

CUT TO:

29 EXT. PUTTING GREEN - PITCH AND PUTT GOLF COURSE - SAME 29

Mike and Rob putt.

MIKE:

Haven't you noticed I didn't mention

Michelle once today?

ROB:

I didn't want to say anything.

MIKE:

Why?

ROB:

I don't know. It's like not talking to

a pitcher in the midst of a no hitter.

MIKE:

What? Like, you didn't want to jinx it?

ROB:

Kinda.

MIKE:

I don't talk about her that much.

ROB:

Oh no?

MIKE:

I didn't mention her once today.

ROB:

Well, until now. Tend the pin.

Mike pulls out the flag for Rob's putt. He misses.

MIKE:

The only reason I mentioned her at all is

to say that I'm not going to talk about

her anymore. I thought you'd appreciate

that.

ROB:

I do. Good for you, man.

MIKE:

I've decided to get out there.

(re:
the ball)

Go ahead. Play it out.

Rob putts the "gimme". He misses by an inch.

MIKE:

I'm not making any more excuses for

myself.

Rob taps it in. He tends the pin or Mike, who misses.

ROB:

Good to hear, Mikey.

Mike putts again, and misses.

MIKE:

You want to hit the town tonight?

ROB:

I shouldn't, Mike, it's a weeknight.

MIKE:

What do you have? A Pluto call back?

ROB:

Sure. Kick me when I'm down.

Mike plunks it in.

MIKE:

Count 'em up.

The two of them count and recount as they revisualize each

shot in their head. Throughout the process they count under

their breath and point to different parts of the fairway and

green.

The two of them revolve, point, and mumble for an absurdly

long amount of time until finally...

ROB:

How many strokes?

MIKE:

I don't know. Eight or Nine.

ROB:

I'll give you an eight.

(writes score)

MIKE:

What'd you get?

ROB:

An eight.

MIKE:

Looks like we're in a dead heat after one

hole. This is turning into quite a

rivalry.

Rob points to the far-off crowd of a dozen IRATE GOLFERS

Waiting to tee off.

ROB:

You better replace the pin, Chi-Chi. The

natives look restless.

CUT TO:

30 INT. SUE'S APARTMENT - HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD - EVENING 30

First of all, SUE is a guy, and a tough guy at that. He is

wearing an L.A. Kings home jersey. His sweater bears the

sacred number "99". Sue is lounging in front of the TV in

army surplus khaki cutoffs and untied Doc Martin boots.

Sue brushes back a shock of straight, greasy, dirty blonde

hair as not to obscure his view of the screen. His face

glows with the reflection of the SEGA HOCKEY game on the set.

Sue and TRENT are locked in a heavily contested battle of

motor reflexes. Nothing moves but their eyes, thumbs, and

mouths...

SUE:

B*tch... You little b*tch!

TRENT:

Chelios to Roenick...!

MIKE looks on. He is more captivated with the simulated

sporting event than the Clippers game on the TV across the

room.

Electric guitars blaze over the stereo.

The room, like the guys, could use a spring cleaning. Pizza

boxes, beer bottles, and full, full ashtrays. You can taste

the smoke.

SUE:

You little b*tch!

MIKE:

Hey Sue. Gretsky's on his ass again.

TRENT:

Because he's a b*tch.

SUE:

That's so bullshit. This is so bullshit.

MIKE:

You should play another team. The Kings

are b*tches in this game.

SUE:

Hey, man. I took the Kings to the Cup.

TRENT:

... against the computer.

SUE:

They're a finesse team...

TRENT:

They're a b*tch team... SCORE!

Roenick!

SUE:

F***!!! That is so bullshit!

MIKE:

Give it up, Sue.

The PHONE RINGS. Sue picks it up and balances it on his

shoulder as he plays.

SUE:

Hello?

(re:
game)

Sh*t!

(back to phone)

Yeah. The elevator doesn't work.

(he lets the phone drop. Then

to Mike)

It's Pink Dot. Buzz him in - hit nine.

Mike picks up the phone off the matted shag carpet. He

pushes "9", listens, then hangs up.

TRENT:

I wish the game still had fights so I

could b*tch-slap Wayne.

MIKE:

This version doesn't have fighting?

TRENT:

No. Doesn't that suck?

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