Swingers Page #12

MIKE:

What? That was the best part of the old

game.

SUE:

I don't know. I guess kids were hitting

each other or something.

TRENT:

You could make their heads bleed, though.

SUE:

Yeah... If you hit them hard their heads

bleed all over the ice and their legs

convulse.

MIKE:

No.

TRENT:

Yeah.

SUE:

It's kinda money, actually.

MIKE:

Make someone bleed.

SUE:

No, man, we're in the play-offs.

TRENT:

I'll make Gretsky bleed, the little

b*tch.

The DELIVERY MAN knocks on the door.

SUE:

Pause it.

(Trent pauses the game)

MIKE:

Give me the money. I'll get it.

While Sue gives Mike the money, Trent UNPAUSES the game and

checks Gretsky into the boards, leaving him writhing in a

pool of red pixels.

SUE:

You b*tch!

Sue dives onto Trent. They wrestle a little too

rambunctiously for indoors. Trent pulls the hockey sweater

over Sue's head and starts wailing on his back.

Mike crosses. The CAMERA follows him down a shallow hallway

to the door. He unlocks it.

A delivery man of eastern-hemispheric decent is out of breath

from four flights of stairs. He hands Mike a twelve-pack of

Bud cans and three packs of Marlboro reds.

He can HEAR, but NOT SEE, the chaos ensuing in the living

room.

CUT TO:

31 INT. SUE'S LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS 31

Trent and Sue are flushed. They pause long enough to torment

Mike.

TRENT:

(feigning homosexuality)

Is he cute? Ask him if he wants to stay

for a cocktail!

SUE:

(following suit)

... Is he brown?

BACK TO:

32 INT. SUE'S DOORWAY - CONTINUOUS 32

Mike forces an apologetic smile. He is embarrassed. The

delivery man doesn't seem to understand any of this.

Mike, out of guilt, hands him a four dollar tip. This he

seems to understand. He smiles and leaves.

Mike crosses back to the main room.

MIKE:

You guys are such a**holes.

TRENT:

(continuing the gag)

Aww... He got away?

SUE:

(untangling himself from

Trent)

Gimme my reds. I've been jonesing for an

hour.

Mike throws him a pack of smokes, which he unravels with

surgical precision.

Cans of beer are tossed around and cracked.

MIKE:

What time's this party tonight?

TRENT:

It starts at eight...

SUE:

... which means no one will get there

'til ten.

MIKE:

So, what? Eleven?

TRENT & SUE

Midnight.

MIKE:

I'm gonna bring and old friend who just

moved out here.

TRENT:

Who? Rob?

MIKE:

Yeah. You met him once.

TRENT:

(approvingly)

Yeah. He's a "rounder".

SUE:

What's he do?

MIKE:

He's trying to be an actor.

TRENT:

What a surprise...

SUE:

... How novel.

CUT TO:

33 EXT. DARK ALLEY - OFF OF HOLLYWOOD BLVD. - SEEDY - NIGHT 33

MIKE and ROB walk down the dirty deserted alleyway. Mike is

wearing baggy slacks, Doc Martin shoes, and an oversized

Eisenhower-cut jacket with a vertical stripe inset. The

collar is large and pointy, but definitely not seventies.

His ensemble has more of an early sixties vibe.

Rob hasn't been at it quite as long. He's wearing worn-in

Levies over worn-in boots and, the nineties standby, an

untucked flannel.

Mike walks with purpose. He intermittently tries to pull

open locked steel doors along the alley. Rob looks confused.

ROB:

So, if the party starts at eight, why are

we first going to a bar at ten?

MIKE:

To get a drink before we meet the guys

for a bite at eleven.

ROB:

Oh.

(beat)

Where is this place?

MIKE:

(pulling handle)

It's one of these. For some reason, cool

bars in L.A. have to be very hard to find

and have no signs out front.

ROB:

That doesn't sound too good for business.

MIKE:

(pull)

It's kinda like a speakeasy kind of

thing. It's kinda cool. It's like

you're in on some kind of secret. You

tell a chick you've been some place, it's

like bragging that you know how to find

it. The only way you could know where a

place is is if someone who knows brought

you there. You have to have someone come

before. There is a direct line

connecting you back to the original,

unequivocally cool, club patrons. It's

kinda like Judaism...

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