The Truman Show Page #5

Truman hands Marlon their sole golf club without comment.

Marlon is still looking admiringly in the direction of the shot.

MARLON:

Ouch. Whose nuts were those?

TRUMAN:

(opening a beer from the six pack)

Mine.

Marlon tees up a ball of his own. initialed with the letter "M".

TRUMAN:

I gotta get out, Marlon.

MARLON:

(mild interest only)

Yeah? Outta what?

TRUMAN:

Outta my job, outta Queens...out!

Marlon takes a practise swing.

MARLON:

Outta your job? What the hell's wrong

with your job? You gotta great job.

You gotta desk job. I'd kill for a desk

job.

Marlon addresses the ball and swings. A sweeping hook shot

that bounces off the freeway out of bounds.

MARLON:

(annoyed by the errant tee shot)

Sonofabitch.

TRUMAN:

It doesn't mean anything.

MARLON:

(still looking in the

direction of his ball)

Nothing means anything. Try stocking vending

machines for a living. My biggest decision

of the day is whether the Almond Joys look

better next to the Snickers or the Baby Ruths.

Truman selects another "M" ball from the bucket and tosses it to

Marlon.

TRUMAN:

(adamant)

I gotta get out.

Overcompensating with his second shot, Marlon slices the ball in

the other direction. A lucky bounce keeps it on the cement

fairway.

MARLON:

(skeptical, picking up his beer)

Sure and go where?

Truman gulps his beer as he prepares his answer.

TRUMAN:

(unable to disguise his reverence)

Australia.

MARLON:

(impressed)

No sh*t. Where is Australia exactly?

Near England?

Truman picks up a golf ball to demonstrate. He points to a

dimple on his make-shift globe.

TRUMAN:

See here, this is Queens.

(sliding his finger around

the other side of the ball)

All the way round here, Australia. You

can't get any further away before you start

coming back.

(tossing the world in his hand,

warming to his subject)

Y'know, there're still places in Australia

where no human being has ever set foot.

MARLON:

(still dubious)

So when are you leaving?

TRUMAN:

It's not that simple. Takes money, planning.

You can't just up and go.

(heading off Marlon's skepticism)

Oh, I'm gonna do it, don't worry about

that. I just gotta move slow. Pick a

moment. Bonus time's just around the

corner. Soon as I get a retaining wall

built on the back of the house I can

start thinking about selling up...and I'll be

gone. Up and away on that big steel bird.

(as if to convince himself)

I'm going, don't you worry about that.

Marlon nods even though the concept of taking flight is beyond

his imagination.

MARLON:

I never knew anybody who got out.

An awkward moment. Truman, once again, not so sure of himself.

He masks his doubt by teeing up another ball.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. FREEWAY. LATER THAT NIGHT.

TRUMAN and MARLON wander down the empty freeway, retrieving

the golf balls. As they return them to the bucket they check

the initial on each ball to determine the winner of their

long-drive competition.

TRUMAN:

(slightly the worse for drink)

Tick-f***ing-tock. That's the f***ing

problem, Marlon. I'm thirty-four. I'm

older than Jesus Christ.

Marlon looks sideways at Truman. It sounds to him like the beer

talking.

TRUMAN:

Where do the dreams go, Marlon?

MARLON:

(picking up the last ball marked with an

initial "T", trying to ignore the question)

You win.

TRUMAN:

I'm serious. Where do the dreams go?

MARLON:

(humoring his maudlin friend)

They're still there. Just buried under what

we settled for.

They approach Truman's Oldsmobile. Truman opens the trunk to

deposit their humble golfing equipment. Inside are the remains

of the fallen light fixture.

TRUMAN:

(referring to the light)

You really think it could've dropped off an

airliner?

MARLON:

(unimpressed)

Sure. It's halogen. You oughta report it.

(quickly changing the subject)

You coming for a drink?

TRUMAN:

I can't tonight.

EXT. EATON'S NECK POINT. DUSK, TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER.

The lines of a television screen signal another of Truman's

flashbacks. A small group of MOURNERS in black, several openly

weeping, stand on the end of a small jetty, including the SEVEN-

YEAR-OLD TRUMAN, dry-eyed in an ill-fitting suit, his weeping

MOTHER, older sister, RAQUEL, and a PRIEST at the head of the

gathering.

The priest nods to Truman who holds an ornate wreath, heavy and

cumbersome in his tiny hands. He heaves it off the dock.

MATCH DISSOLVE TO

EXT. EATON'S NECK POINT, LONG ISLAND. NIGHT, PRESENT.

A smaller, more simple wreath lands on the calm, dark water

beyond the jetty twenty-seven years later. TRUMAN stares at the

wreath for a long moment, turns and wanders back towards the

shoreline.

In his work suit minus his shoes and socks, he sits on the sand.

He has a portable tape recorder slung over his shoulder and

points a corded microphone at the surf. For a long while we

watch Truman's impassive face as he makes the recording of the

lapping waves, staring up at the handful of stars visible

through the gloom.

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