The End of the Tour Page #6

David realizes the late hour.

DAVID (CONT’D)

Look, I like... I like talking to you

but we have to get up real early.

LIPSKY:

What is it, like ten o’clock?

DAVID:

It’s eleven-thirty, dickbrain.

LIPSKY:

Sh*t...I am so sorry, I completely

lost track of time. When should I

pick you up in the morning?

Lipsky gets his coat.

DAVID:

Where you going?

LIPSKY:

Motel. There was like a Days Inn on

the main road. I thought I’d

DAVID:

(overlap) No no you don’t want to

stay there - trust me. I’ve got a

guest-roomish place you can crash in.

LIPSKY:

You sure? I don’t want to impose...

41 INT. DAVID’S HOUSE/GUEST ROOM - 1996 - NIGHT 41

The room is cluttered, not unlike Lipsky’s place in New York.

David clears stuff off a futon that’s on the floor.

31.

DAVID:

Let me get this sh*t out of the way...

Hm. (re:
the rumpled sheet) Might be

a good idea to change that.

Together, they put on a clean sheet. When they’re done:

DAVID:

Uh, leave the door open for the dogs.

LIPSKY:

Oh, okay.

DAVID:

They like to wander from room to room

during the night; if the door’s

closed, they’ll eat it to get through

if they have to. ‘Night.

Lipsky makes a move to shake his host’s hand but doesn’t.

David goes. Lipsky finds himself surrounded by intimidating

stacks of domestic and foreign editions of David’s books.

41A INT. DAVID’S HOUSE/GUEST ROOM - 1996 - LATER 41A

Lipsky is in bed. From his POV on the floor: The looming

towers of Infinite Jest. The door creaks open: Drone and

Jeeves pay a visit.

43 EXT. DAVID’S HOUSE - 1996 - DAWN 43

In the middle of a wintry field.

44 INT. DAVID’S HOUSE/KITCHEN - 1996 - DAWN 44

Lipsky, wrecked, enters and finds David drinking coffee.

DAVID:

Morning. There’s coffee...

LIPSKY:

No, thanks. I don’t need caffeine to

wake up. But cigarettes...?

He lights up.

DAVID:

Brothers of the lung.

A Pop-Tart pops up from the toaster.

DAVID:

Want to split this with me? It’s the

last one I’ve got.

32.

LIPSKY:

No thanks.

David splits it in two and offers Lipsky half.

DAVID:

Mi Pop-Tart es su Pop-Tart.

Thanks.

LIPSKY:

They bite into their Pop-Tarts.

46 EXT. DAVID’S HOUSE - 1996 - MOMENTS LATER 46

A miserable morning. Grey, freezing rain.

ice off the windshield.

Lipsky scrapes

47 I/E. CAR/OUTSKIRTS - BLOOMINGTON - 1996 - MORNING 47

Windshield wipers clear falling sleet. The tape recorder onthe transmission between them. Radio plays softly. Ridingpast farmland, plants, strip malls. David, in the passengerseat, gives the lay of the land.

DAVID:

...There’s a Mitsubishi plant, and

then there’s a lot of farm-support

stuff, like Ro-Tech, Anderson Seeds...

LIPSKY:

What are you doing here?

aren’t you in New York?

I mean, why

DAVID:

Every time I go to New York, I getcaught up in this - there’s this

enormous hiss of egos at variousstages of inflation and deflation.

It’s me-me-me.

Lipsky takes out his tape recorder.

LIPSKY:

So, I gotta ask:
What’s with the

bandanna?

What?

DAVID:

What do you mean?

LIPSKY:

People think it’s a way you’re trying

to connect with the younger readingaudience.

33.

DAVID:

Is that what people think? I don’t

know many Gen-Xers who wear ‘em.

Jeez. I don’t know what to say. I

guess I wish you hadn’t brought this

up.

LIPSKY:

Why?

DAVID:

Because now I’m worrying that it’s

going to seem intentional. Like if I

don’t wear it, am I not wearing it

because I’m bowing to other people’s

perception that it’s a commercial

choice? Or do I do what I want, even

though it’s perceived as commercial -

and it’s just like one more crazy

circle to go around.

LIPSKY:

Sorry. When did you start wearing

them?

DAVID:

In Tuscon. It was a hundred degrees

all the time. I would perspire so

much... I would drip into the electric

typewriter, I was nervous I was gonna

give myself a shock. And then I

discovered that I felt better with

them on.

LIPSKY:

Uh huh.

DAVID:

I know it’s a security blanket for me -

whenever I’m nervous. Or feel like I

have to keep myself together. It

makes me feel kinda creepy that people

view it as an affectation or a

trademark or something. It’s more of

a foible, the recognition of a

weakness, that I’m kinda afraid my

head’s gonna explode.

Lipsky laughs.

34.

51 I./E. CAR/OUTSKIRTS - CHICAGO - 1996 - DAY 51

The Grand Am on the highway to O’Hare. Trucks race past

spewing cascades of water. Wipers at top speed. Ambient

radio. Tape running. Lipsky at the wheel.

LIPSKY:

Your parents are both academics?

DAVID:

My dad, philosophy; my mom, English.

You?

LIPSKY:

Me? My dad’s in advertising, my mom’s

a painter. When they split up, I

lived with my mother in SoHo and my

brother moved in with my dad.

DAVID:

Sounds like there’s a story there.

LIPSKY:

There is; I just wrote it.

DAVID:

So what was that like, your family

divided that way?

LIPSKY:

Hey, who’s interviewing whom? How old

were you when you started writing

fiction?

DAVID:

Twenty-one?

LIPSKY:

Never before?

DAVID:

I think I started a World War Two

novel when I was nine.

LIPSKY:

What about?

DAVID:

A bunch of people with strangely

hyperdeveloped skills and powers, who

are going to invade Hitler's bunker.

Then, in college, I wrote a couple of

papers for other people.

35.

LIPSKY:

They were paying you to write their

papers?

DAVID:

Well, I wouldn't put it that coarsely.

But let's say there were complicated

systems of reward. I’d read two or

three of their papers to learn, you

know, what their music sounded like.

And I remember thinking, “Man, I'm

really good at this. I'm a weird kind

of forger. I mean, I can sound kind of

like anybody.”

LIPSKY:

Odds are I’m gonna want to talk to

your parents.

DAVID:

What for?

LIPSKY:

Biographical stuff.

DAVID:

I hereby request that you don’t.

LIPSKY:

Oh. Okay.

DAVID:

They’re real private people, and I

would have a hard time with it. So, no

you may not.

LIPSKY:

(backing off) Okay. I may not.

52 EXT. O'HARE AIRPORT/LONG TERM PARKING - CHICAGO - 1996 - DAY 52

Lipsky looks for a place to park the Grand Am.

53 INT. AIRPORT - 1996 - DAY 53

The Davids check in at the gate.

56B INT. AIRPLANE - 1996 - LATER 56B

Peanuts, pretzels and drinks sit on their open tray tables.

36.

DAVID:

Crap jobs? Let’s see: I was a security

guard for this software company for

three and a half months.

LIPSKY:

Really.

DAVID:

I had to wear this polyester uniform,

and walk under these fluorescent

lights, twirlin’ my baton, checking in

every ten minutes: [mimes a walkietalkie]

“All clear at this cubicle!”

Like, every bad '60s novel about

meaningless authority.

LIPSKY:

And were you thinking, “My God, I had

two books come out when I was in my

early twenties and here I am...”?

DAVID:

No. As a matter of fact, one reason I

liked that job is, I walked around not

thinking. In a really like, “Huh:

there's a ceiling tile.”

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