Rat Race - Working your way up the gutter is harder than it looks
Episode #1 - Da Bears
FADE IN
INT: O'DONLAN'S PUB AT LUNCH
(ROSCOE is seated at the bar having lunch, STU on one side of him and ARTIE on the other. LOU is behind the bar. 417B is at the far end of the bar, his usual seat.)
ROSCOE:
Hey Lou, what's the spread this weekend?
LOU:
Packers by 3 1/2.
STU:
When was the last time the Bears got within 3 1/2 points of anyone?
MICK:
(Seated in a booth across the pub. He has a thick Chicago accent)
The Mick is giving 4 1/2 to show what a good sport he is and to give the average Joe his chance to make a little scratch.
STU:
I'm in! So where is he?
MICK:
You're talking to him.
ROSCOE:
He is The Mick, Stu. He likes to refer to himself in the third person.
STU:
That's no Mick, that's Kevin. He works in the Starbucks upstairs. Hey Kevin, cut the crap. Are you taking bets on the game or what?
MICK:
You're talking to The Mick, and The Mick don't like no smart-aleck giving him lip. The Mick wants to know if you want the 4 1/2 or not!
STU:
Kev, why are you talking like Joe Montegna? You're from Minneapolis.
ARTIE:
It's part of his persona, Stuie. He's a tough guy, a big city bookie. Just play along.
STU:
Tough guy? Jesus, he's still wearing his Starbucks smock. How tough can you be with a Starbucks smock?
ROSCOE:
Just play along, Stuie.
STU:
I'm just saying. If you wanna be a tough guy, why would you wear a green smock that has cinnamon stains on it? Did you ever see a tough guy with fucking cinnamon stains on his smock? For Chrissake, he serves latte for $5.25 an hour!
417B:
Who's paying $5.25 an hour? I'm in!!
ROSCOE:
So what is America's most money-hungry lab rat doing for cash this week?
417B:
Extra fingers!
(417B is waving his hands to get attention, and each hand has several extra fingers grafted onto it. One falls off and lands in his beer as he waves about. 417B fishes it out and staples it back on.)
MICK:
(Yelling now)
Is The Mick being ignored here? The Mick don't enjoy being ignored!
STU:
(Getting up and heading O.C. to THE MICK)
Hold your horses, Kevin. I'm in for fifty. And I need a large decaf and a biscotti.
ARTIE:
(To 417B)
Why would anyone want extra fingers?
417B:
Productivity, man. To work more, to manipulate the computer keyboard more efficiently, to multitask more effectively, to create a better world for our children.
ROSCOE:
What are they paying you for this?
417B:
$3,500 over a nine-day period plus free hospitalization.
ARTIE:
Hospitalization for what?
417B:
(Reading from a brochure)
Pancreatic cancer, chronic halitosis, bubonic plague...
ROSCOE:
Bubonic plague?
LOU:
I throw away any glass he touches.
ARTIE:
So we're still on for the game, right?
ROSCOE:
Wouldn't miss a Bears / Packers game if my job depended on it. How are the baby-sitting plans coming?
ARTIE:
(Pulls out palm pilot and starts calling up information)
Looking good. All I have to do is find someone to watch the triplets and I'm all set.
ROSCOE:
Who has the rest of the kids?
ARTIE:
Let's see. Mrs. Brown is taking Stephen, Penelope, Sasha, Britt and Alex. Stacy Korman from down the street is looking after Nicole, Ben, Omar, Julie, Vincent and Loretta from 10 until 2, and then she has to pick up her kids at soccer practice so she is dropping Nicole, Julie and Vincent off at Grandma Ruby's house and Ben, Omar and Loretta will head over to the church daycare until Rita's seminar on achieving independence is over and she takes them down to visit uncle Lenny who will already have Bobby, Linda, Jerry, Artie Jr. and Hummud-Abdullah.
STU:
Hummud-Abdullah? When did he show up?
ARTIE:
About a week ago, right after Rita finished her seminar on embracing cultural diversity.
LOU:
Have you ever thought about having kids, Roscoe?
ROSCOE:
Yeah. No. I don't know. I mean, I love Artie's kids and all but I don't know if I could keep track of all the little details.
417B:
You could if you had extra fingers!
ROSCOE:
It just seems like such a big commitment. Maybe someday.
STU:
(Returning from THE MICK's booth with a betting slip and Starbucks coffee)
I told Kevin that multiple personality disorder often results in suicide, but with the proper care he could live a normal life.
ROSCOE:
What a caring shrink.
STU:
And when he started to sob uncontrollably I told him one of his other personalities was giving 5 1/2 for the game, so he took it.
ARTIE:
You're a real prince, doc.
(STU's pager goes off at the same time ARTIE's cel phone rings.)
417B:
(Waving extra fingers)
I'll get em! Shit!
(Another finger flies off and lands in the deep fryer.)
STU:
(Reading pager)
Gotta go, boys. The American dream is calling.
ROSCOE:
Another client having a nervous breakdown because they got your bill?
STU:
Where would this world be without psychologists?
LOU:
Sane, secure, happy and with enough money to retire comfortably.
ARTIE:
(On the phone)
Sure thing, honey. Let me read the order back to you. Twenty-one Arby-Q's, 21 orders of fries -- 15 curly, 6 regular -- 21 Jamocha shakes...What? Okay, okay. Breathe. Breathe. Cleansing breath. Get ready. Push! Push! Find your focal point! That's it. One more. Push!! How many? Boys? Girls? Don't worry, I'll adjust the food order. You want me to pick up a movie tonight? Love you too.
(Hangs up and immediately grabs Palm Pilot) Need another baby-sitter. Let's see here. If Grandma Ruby can meet Stacy at soccer practice...
ROSCOE:
Congratulations.
ARTIE:
Yeah, thanks. Fatherhood is great, Roscoe. You ought to try it.
(Smacks Palm Pilot a few times) Shit. This thing is gonna need more memory.
417B:
Maybe you just need more fingers.
INT. ROSCOE'S OFFICE
Overhead SHOT of ROSCOE working his way back to cube. Looks like a rat in a maze. He plops down in front of his computer to check e-mail and then voice mail.
E-MAIL:
FREE CHEESE! Increase personal productivity and receive free cheese at the same time!! This is not a pyramid scheme. This really works!!! Click here now!
(ROSCOE hits delete.)
E-MAIL:
FREE CHEESE! Joining Beer of the Month has never been easier. Click here for a chance to win five pounds of free cheese!
(ROSCOE hits delete.)
E-MAIL:
FREE SEX!!! Click here for our latest catalog and a chance to win five pounds of free cheese!
(ROSCOE moves e-mail into personal folder, looking about to make sure no one sees him. Notices message light blinking on telephone.)
VOICEMAIL:
You have one new message. First message sent today at 1:11 p.m.
Roscoe looks at clock on computer, which says 1:14 p.m.
VOICEMAIL:
(Stu is whispering and a woman sobbing can be heard in the background.)
Roscoe, it's Stuie. You're never gonna guess who my 1:00 appointment is. Emily Bennett. Remember? From college? The nympho?
EMILY:
(In background)
Who are you talking to?
STU:
I'll be right with you Mrs. Connor.(Whispering) She's married to some plumber I'm gonna bleed dry, and she thinks everyone is talking about her behind her back. How fucked up is that?
EMILY:
Are you talking about me?
STU:
Of course not, Mrs. Connor. (Whispering to ROSCOE) Remember the time she showed up at that kegger in the dump and we got her trashed in the back seat of...
EMILY:
You are talking about me!!
STU:
Gotta go buddy!
(STU hangs up on voicemail. Hotmail pops up on the computer screen and gets ROSCOE's attention.)
HOTMAIL:
Urgent!! Meeting in the Blue Room at 1:00 today!
(ROSCOE looks at clock again, which now says 1:16. Second Hotmail pops up.)
HOTMAIL:
There will be plenty of Donuts!! See you there. Jonas.
ROSCOE:
(Talking to himself)
I just had lunch. What the hell do I want with a donut? Who else is going to this meeting?
ROSCOE stands up to peer over his cube. BRENDA peeks over her cube, sees ROSCOE and the two of them roll their eyes. DREW pops up and exchanges similar looks with BRENDA and ROSCOE. Dramatic music plays as WILLARD pops up, smiling foolishly.
ROSCOE:
(Smiles politely at WILLARD)
Crap.
BRENDA:
(Smiles politely at WILLARD)
Shit.
DREW:
(Flips off WILLARD)
Fuck.
INT. THE BLUE ROOM
(JONAS, three other employees and JACKSON STREETER are seated. In front of JONAS are several dozen donuts. JONAS is eating a donut when ROSCOE and others enter.)
JONAS:
Care for a donut, team?
DREW:
I'm still picking lunch out of my teeth.
JONAS:
Just being proactive about hunger, heh-heh.
(A cricket chirps in the silence after the failed joke.)
ROSCOE:
What's the urgency?
JONAS:
There was a communications breakdown and the necessary information wasn't disseminated to all involved personnel.
BRENDA:
You forgot to tell anyone you scheduled a meeting, didn't you?
JONAS:
Yeppers.
ROSCOE:
(Looking at the other three employees, each with a lap top in front of them)
What's the meeting about?
JONAS:
Today's marketplace calls for forward thinking and cutting edge strategic planning.
BRENDA:
Don't let this be about branding.
JONAS:
Without the power of creative, all of us here at Tastes Like Heaven would lose our edge in the fierce market of gourmet garbage processing and delivery.
DREW:
Don't let this be about branding.
JONAS:
That's why today's guest motivator is here, to set us on the right corporate path and help us chart the waters of competition.
ROSCOE:
Don't let this be about branding.
JONAS:
Today, we learn the intricacies, nuances and virtues of...branding.
BRENDA, ROSCOE, DREW:
(All talking over one another in disgust)
Oh no. Branding? Again? Somebody shoot me now. What a colossal waste of my day. No fucking way. Are you shitting me?
DREW:
Wait a minute. If this is supposed to be a branding meeting, what is Accounting doing here?
ACCOUNTING:
(All three speak together.)
We're not leaving.
JONAS:
There was a scheduling malfunction involving coordination of The Blue Room...
DREW:
You forgot to reserve the room again, didn't you?
JONAS:
Yeppers. Accounting scheduled it from 1 to 3.
ACCOUNTING:
We're not leaving.
WILLARD:
(Sits down next to ACCOUNTING guys and unrolls blueprints)
Here are the blueprints for the freshwater crab farm I'm building in my mother's basement.
ACCOUNTING:
(Immediately packing up laptops and talking over one another)
Meeting over. We're done. Blue Room's all yours.
JONAS:
We have a very special presenter today to help us meet and exceed our challenge of corporate identity. Please welcome Jackson Streeter.
JACKSON:
Thinking outside the box. Who can tell me what that means?
WILLARD:
(Raising hand)
I collect sod.
(JACKSON is immediately thrown and begins fumbling with note cards.)
DREW:
(To ROSCOE)
Did you hear about Mother Sarkisian's skybox party this weekend?
ROSCOE:
For the Bears game?
DREW:
Our fearless leader is pulling out the stops. Caviar, champagne, brie wheel. The works.
ROSCOE:
Are you going?
DREW:
Me? This party is for the big wigs, the rats moving up the ladder.
JACKSON:
Think of branding like an umbrella. When the storm of competition is raining down on your corporate image, you huddle together beneath the protection of uniformity and forward thinking.
(MOTHER SARKISIAN enters the room and everyone grows silent.)
JONAS:
Mother Sarkisian, what a wonderful surprise.
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Jonas, why in the hell do you have 800 donuts in front of you?
JONAS:
We were just about to have a breakout session on team building. Please stay and interface.
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
You need a bra, Jonas. Your boobs are bigger than Brenda's.
(BRENDA looks sadly down at her chest.)
JACKSON STREETER:
(To MOTHER SARKISIAN)
Jackson Streeter. I'm here to help you find out who you are.
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
I'm the president of this company, jack-ass. I already know who I am.
JACKSON STREETER:
Well that may be, but we need to help you define your role in the marketplace. To find out what you do.
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
I'll tell you what we do, Zippy. People throw away garbage. We take the garbage and process it into gourmet foods. We deliver the gourmet foods to rats. The rats eat it. The rats like it. The rats order more of it, and we do it all over again.
JACKSON STREETER:
Yes, but without direction...
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
We have directions. Our customers give us directions to their house and that's where we drop off the food. What don't you get? Branding. Another worthwhile expense, Jonas.
JONAS:
(Oblivious to the sarcasm)
Why thank you! Thank you very much, Mother Sarkisian.
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Roscoe, check your e-mail when you're done here. And somebody get those donuts away from Jonas.
(MOTHER SARKISIAN exits.)
JONAS:
(Packing up the donuts)
Alright, everyone. Great meeting. Now let's get out there and build on this foundation of success.
JACKSON STREETER:
What about my presentation? What about the team building exercise?
BRENDA:
An e-mail from the boss lady. Looks like somebody is moving up the ladder.
DREW:
Either that or she wants to sleep with you.
INT. ROSCOE'S OFFICE
(ROSCOE in the maze races back to his cube, BRENDA and DREW doing the same but taking different directions to add confusion to the maze running. BRENDA beats ROSCOE to his computer and she is reading the e-mail when he gets there.)
BRENDA:
(Reading e-mail aloud)
Congratulations stud! We have received your order for our popular Erotic Extender. You should be receiving your free cheese within 5-10 days. Thank you for shopping with Love Muffin Unlimited.
ROSCOE:
Heh-heh. How did you get into my e-mail?
BRENDA:
I know your password, big lover.
ROSCOE:
But I never selected my password.
BRENDA:
Exactly. You can never make up your mind about anything, so I knew your password would be the default word. Erotic extender, huh?
DREW:
(Interrupting with next e-mail)
You are cordially invited to this week's contest between the Green Bay Packers and the Chicago Bears. Our luxurious Soldier Field skybox suite will be filled with the finest cheeses, delectables and wines for the big game. Champagne fountain begins flowing at 11:15 a.m. An official invitation will be in your mailbox by day's end.
BRENDA:
Oh my god.
ROSCOE:
Oh my god.
DREW:
Holy shit. The big mother wants Roscoe.
BRENDA:
You know, ever since you put together that radio campaign last summer Mother Sarkisian has had her eye on you.
ROSCOE:
But we didn't even run any of those ads.
DREW:
When was the last time this place used anything we ever created.
ROSCOE:
Yeah I know but...
DREW:
Seriously. When was the last time they used anything of ours.
(All three pause while Jeopardy music plays. Music ends. Awkward silence. BRENDA coughs dryly.)
ROSCOE:
So what does this mean?
BRENDA:
It means you're on your way up.
ROSCOE:
Up where? Based on what?
DREW:
Who cares? You're living the American dream, my man: get promoted well beyond your capabilities and then delegate the work to incompetents below you.
BRENDA:
And expense the donuts.
ROSCOE:
But I'm supposed to go to the game with Artie and Stu.
DREW:
Roscoe, the time has come to dump your friends and chase the almighty dollar.
BRENDA:
That's sweet.
DREW:
Thanks. So what are you gonna do, buddy? Hang with the boys or grab the brass ring?
ROSCOE:
But I go to the game with Artie and Stu every year.
BRENDA:
(Positioned over ROSCOE's right shoulder)
Then don't disappoint your friends.
ROSCOE:
But this could mean a big promotion.
DREW:
(Positioned over ROSCOE's left shoulder)
Then seize the moment and head for the skybox.
ROSCOE:
But we have a huge party in the endzone.
BRENDA:
Then honor your commitment.
ROSCOE:
But this could be my one and only chance.
DREW:
Then go have sex with Mother Sarkisian. Oh wait. Wrong train of thought.
ROSCOE:
What am I going to do?
WILLARD:
How can you tell if you have herpes?
(Everyone scatters, leaving Willard in SHOT.)
INT. OUTSIDE O'DONLAN'S PUB
(ROSCOE is walking to the steps of O'Donlan's. He looks in the window of Starbucks and sees KEVIN scrambling about, trying to wait on a horde of customers.)
INT. O'DONLAN'S PUB
LOU:
You seem a bit preoccupied, my friend.
ROSCOE:
I've been invited to the company skybox for the Bears game tomorrow.
LOU:
And that's a problem?
ROSCOE:
I already have plans with Artie and Stu.
LOU:
So what is it going to be?
ROSCOE:
Ahhh, I don't know. I don't know which way to go. The story of my life, eh Lou?
I can be with my friends or I can go for the cash and head to the skybox.
417B:
(417B is wearing a ton of make-up, his left eye twitching. The extra fingers are gone and his hands are bandaged up.)
Go for the cash, you idiot!
ROSCOE:
What happened to the extra fingers?
417B:
Yesterday's news. Make-up testing. That's the gravy train. Can't let the big ones get away, you know.
LOU:
Looks like you have a decision to make.
ROSCOE:
Any advice?
(LOU nods to the tip jar as ROSCOE pays bill and heads out. The tip jar is a large glass jar at the end of the bar filled with folded pieces of paper. ROSCOE reaches into the tip jar and pulls out a tip which reads: Choices appear at extremes while the true answer waits patiently in the middle.)
INT: THE EL RIDE HOME
(Rat el is attached beneath the human el. Tiny doors on the underside of the human el and the feet of humans scrambling overhead. On the el ROSCOE sees the stereotypes of success. Rats in suits on cel phones -- maybe reading Beneath Wall Street Journal -- rat families, a beggar rat playing a tambourine with a sign around his neck that says, "Pay me and I'll stop" and a hustler rat running the shell game on three Japanese rats with cameras around their necks.)
RAT ON CELL PHONE:
I know it's a good investment for the client, but we'll lose money on the commission. We need to come up with something else.
MOMMA RAT WITH CHILDREN:
But didn't you just pee before we left?
(To other children)
Richard Thomas you get your finger out of your sister's ear! You don't know where that finger has been.
RICHARD THOMAS:
Sure I do. It was in her ear.
MOMMA RAT:
Don't give me the lip, smart-guy!
RAT HUSTLER:
Keep your eye on the lucky lady. Do you know where the ten-spot is? All you have to do is...
(One of the Japanese rats takes RAT HUSTLER'S picture, blinding him with the flash. While RAT HUSTLER rubs his eyes, Japanese rat lifts up the shell, finds the ten dollar bill and puts it in his pocket. RAT HUSTLER regains his vision and starts up the game again. ROSCOE looks down at the invitation to the skybox in his hand, flipping it over and over.)
CONDUCTOR:
(As el screeches to a halt)
Addison. Wrigley Field. Watch your step.
ROSCOE gets off the el, walking down a support beam and into a storm grate.
EXT. SOLDIER FIELD ON SATURDAY
There is a line of loud, raucous rats, some in Bears hats, waving pennants, and some in Packers cheeseheads. One rat tries to take a bite out of the cheesehead and chips a tooth.
CHEESEHEAD:
Jesus, you idiot! It's plastic.
(IDIOT shrugs and jumps on cheesehead, gnawing on hat as the two fall out of the picture, CHEESEHEAD screaming in terror. ROSCOE gets to the turnstiles and stops. There is one entrance for endzone tickets and one for skybox tickets. He looks down at the endzone ticket in one hand and the unopened skybox invitation in the other.)
TURNSTILE ATTENDANTS:
(Together)
Ticket, please. Ticket please, sir.
STRANGER (O.C.):
Come on buddy. While we're still young.
(ROSCOE looks down at the tickets again and a hand swipes the endzone ticket from him. It's STU.)
STU:
Hey, hey buddy. I see I'm not the only one who's running late. Let's go.
STRANGER (To STU):
Hey, Jack-Ass. You cut in front of me.
STU:
(In somber, professional voice)
Your mother never really loved you, which made you try even harder. And all that did was drive a wedge between her and your father, which led to his eventual drinking problem. Sometimes you wake up at night in a cold sweat and ask yourself, "Was it my fault?" It was. It was all your fault.
SRANGER:
(Sobs into hands)
It's true! It's all true!
ROSCOE:
(As the two are walking down the tunnel)
How in the hell did you...
STU:
It was written all over him. So, what's in the fancy envelope?
ROSCOE:
Oh, it's a...
INT. THE NORTH ENDZONE SEATS
ARTIE:
(ARTIE is waving to them, the cel phone to his ear.)
Over here!
(Turns attention to phone)
I understand, sugar plum. But Omar called dibs this morning on the last vanilla snackpack while you were taking a shower. I had to give it to him. (Pause) I know, I know, but I packed the chocolate one for you. (Pause) Well then trade it with Omar. (Pause) Then trade with Loretta. (Long pause) Okay. Here's what you do. Get Sasha to give her fruit roll-up to Ben so Ben can have Nicole's lunchables and Nicole will take the Cheerios and trade them to Omar so you can give the chocolate snack pack to Nicole and she will give you Omar's vanilla snack pack. (Pause) Yes, it will work. (Pause) Of course Omar will take the Cheerios. (Pause) Because he's not very bright, that's why. Gotta go sweetie. (Hangs up). Hey guys. I didn't think you were going to make it.
STU:
The guy has five million things going at once. How come we're the ones that are always late?
ARTIE:
Grab some food. Chili dogs, brats, beer, you name it.
Kickoff!
(Everyone turns around to watch the game. They do the kickoff chant and then cram together to watch the action.)
EVERYONE:
Go! Go! Go! Come on! Run left! Look out!
(Big thud and the whistle)
Oooh!
(Everyone immediately turns back to the food, picking up their conversations where they left off.)
STU:
So what's in the envelope, Rossy?
ARTIE:
Yeah, what 'cha got there?
ROSCOE:
It's an invitation.
ARTIE:
To what?
ROSCOE:
Well, believe it or not, it's an invitation to the...
STRANGER (O.C.):
Bomb!
(Everyone turns to watch the action. SHOT is behind the rats' heads as they peer out onto the field. Rats are at ground level, and we see feet and ankles running down the field. One set of feet (the receiver) is running toward them, ahead of two other sets of feet (the defenders). The rats are bouncing up and down as they scream.)
EVERYONE:
He's open! He's open! Throw the goddamm ball! Throw it! Go! Go! Go!
(Ball drops incomplete, the human crowd groans, the whistle blows, the rats turn back to the food.)
ROSCOE:
It's an invitation to...
(ARTIE's phone rings)
ARTIE:
Hello? (Pause) Sasha, I know Mrs. Brown smells like Play-Doh. Just don't let her hug you as much. (Pause) Tell her you have a cold. (Pause) Okay, tell her you have that, too. Honey, put Penelope on the phone. (Pause) Penny, listen. There's been a change in the schedule and you need to make sure Alex doesn't forget his medication. Okay, at 2 o'clock...
STU:
(Pulling invitation out of ROSCOE's hands)
Rossy, you haven't even opened this.
ROSCOE:
I know. I was afraid that...
(STU rips open invitation and reads it, his eyes growing bigger.)
STU:
Sweet Jesus. Two skybox tickets?!
ROSCOE:
Yeah. I was trying to tell you that...two?
STU:
(Reading ticket)
"Please be our guest for an afternoon of football, feasting and fine wine." Oh my god. I think I'm getting a boner. Come on.
(Grabs ROSCOE and starts heading out of the crowd as everyone begins screaming and cheering again.)
ROSCOE:
Wait, wait! What about Artie?
ARTIE:
Now at 3:45 Grandma Ruby will give snacks to Linda, Bobby and Artie Jr. When she does that I need you to get Hummud-Abdullah up from his nap. Hummud-Abdullah. (Pause) He's your brother.(Pause) I don't know, check the bedrooms upstairs.
STU:
Come on.
INT. OUTSIDE ELEVATOR DOOR
STU:
I can't believe you. Sitting on a golden egg like this and you don't tell anybody. What the hell are you doing in the endzone with all the losers?
ROSCOE:
You were in the endzone.
(Elevator door opens. An old rat in a navy blue Bears blazer opens the gate. He is hunched over, slightly, and his name tag says WALKER MIDDLETON.)
WALKER:
Going up, gentlemen?
STU:
(Handing tickets to WALKER and jumping on the elevator)
All the way to the top. Skybox, baby. Living the high life. (To ROSCOE) So let me tell you about Emily Bennett. This woman is a gold mine of neuroses, phobias and fears. By the time I'm done with her, that condo on Lakeshore Drive is as good as mine. Actually, I should call my Realtor now. (Dials cel phone.)
New condo, skybox seats. What a world, eh Roscoe? Dennis, it's Stu. I think it's time to move on the condo.
(ROSCOE looks at WALKER, sitting at a little wooden table, hand on the elevator control. Table has two chairs and a candy dish in the middle filled with mints. Taped to the wall are photographs of WALKER and his wife when they were young, among other pictures of children and grandchildren. ROSCOE notices wedding picture.)
WALKER:
That's Lenore.
ROSCOE:
She's beautiful.
WALKER:
Our wedding day, October 3, 1956.
ROSCOE:
I'll be. That is you. So what does Lenore have to say about you spending Sunday at the ball park instead of working around the house?
WALKER:
(Very matter of factly)
Lenore passed eleven years ago.
ROSCOE:
Oh. I'm sorry.
WALKER:
She used to come down on game day, with a sack lunch for us, and the two of us would sit here and enjoy the game. Oh, she was a huge Bears fan. Sid Luckman, Johnny Lujack, Bulldog Turner, she knew more about those guys than they knew about themselves.
STU:
Dennis. You know as well as I do that we can underbid by at least 15 grand. All we have to do is play up the electrical repairs and they'll think they're unloading a lemon. Believe me. I can get my contractor to say it's a lot worse than it really is.
ROSCOE:
So you and Lenore sat here until the fans got seated and then watched the game, huh?
WALKER:
Watched it right here.
ROSCOE:
Here? In the elevator?
WALKER:
Only missed one game. November 8, 1962. Lenore was giving birth to our youngest. That's Darlene, right there.
ROSCOE:
You mean you've never actually seen the game?
WALKER:
These seats here were always the best in the house. Didn't need to be anywhere else but right here. (Elevator stops) Here we are, gentlemen.
STU:
Work your magic, Dennis. We'll talk later. (Hangs up) Welcome to the big show!
(WALKER hands tickets to ROSCOE. STU snatches them.)
WALKER:
Tastes Like Heaven's suite is down the hall and to your left. Enjoy the game, sirs.
ROSCOE:
Thanks, Walker. You too.
WALKER:
Always do, sir.
(ROSCOE throws a coin into WALKER's tip jar. STU takes a piece of candy.)
STU:
Come on Rossy. Time to live the high life.
INT. OUTSIDE THE SKYBOX ENTRANCE
STU:
Alright, Rossy. Don't look stupid, whatever you do.
ROSCOE:
What are you worried about? I'm the one who works here.
STU:
Just don't embarrass me, okay? This could be my big chance.
ROSCOE:
Chance for what?
(ROSCOE opens up the door as STU primps. The spread is elaborate, with tables of food, ice sculpture and a gigantic fountain. Waiters mill about with trays of champagne glasses and a harp player is in corner. A butler comes up with a tray of champagne glasses and STU goes nuts, waving tickets like an ID badge.)
STU:
We belong! We belong! We have the tickets! Holy shit, look at this place!
Woo-hoo!
(STU takes off running into the suite. MOTHER SARKISIAN walks up to ROSCOE.)
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Nice friend. Is he on medication?
ROSCOE:
No, but he should be.
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Let me show you a view of the football game you won't see anywhere else.
(Leads ROSCOE past the food, where STU is cramming food into his mouth. ROSCOE and MOTHER SARKISIAN walk over to a row of televisions up near the ceiling. We see ROSCOE's face, not the televisions.)
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Closed circuit TV, Roscoe. I'll bet you never knew the game really looked like this, did you?
(ROSCOE shakes his head, mouth hanging open. CUT behind ROSCOE & MOTHER SARKISIAN so we see them looking up at the row of televisions, each one showing a different angle of feet and ankles on the field. Announcers are JOHN MADDEN and PAT SUMMERALL. TVs switch over to the same slow motion shot as the announcers speak.)
PAT SUMMERALL:
John, let's take another look at that touchdown pass from Favre to Antonio Freeman.
JOHN MADDEN:
Pat, it just starts out as a simple little slant route by Freeman, but then Boom! Brooks levels Jackson, the zone collapses to fill the void and Freeman is left all alone. Watch this great footwork Freeman uses to juke Walt Harris.
Boom, Boom, Doink! Let's see that again. Boom, Boom, Doink! See that? That little Doink! at the end?
PAT SUMMERALL:
Yes I did.
JOHN MADDEN:
Boom, Boom, Doink! Boom, Boom, Doink!
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
I would like to know whose idea it was to ever give that man a microphone.
ROSCOE:
Ummh, why am I here?
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
To watch the game, dumbshit.
ROSCOE:
No, I mean yes. I mean, why am I here in the luxury suite with all of the, the...
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Filthy rich, miserable boring fucks?
ROSCOE:
That's one way to put it.
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
I like you Roscoe. I think you have some real potential to work your way up the ladder. But I don't know if you think you belong or not.
ROSCOE:
Ma'am, I appreciate your opinion of me. I really do. It means a great deal to me...
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Spit it out, Roscoe. I'm a big girl. I can take it.
ROSCOE:
If you think I have such potential, why don't you ever use any of the ads I write?
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Because of Jonas, that eating disorder you call your boss.
ROSCOE:
I don't understand.
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
If I use anything that comes through Jonas, then the directors think he had something to do with it. If they like it, which they would if I showed them your work, then Jonas stays your boss and our company profits go straight to Dunkin Donuts. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense but those are the rules.
ROSCOE:
The rules?
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
The rules. God knows I didn't hire Jonas because he is worth a shit. I hired him because he is Reggie Sanders' nephew.
ROSCOE:
Reggie Sanders the adult diaper tycoon?
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Yes. And Reggie Sanders the Treasurer of our esteemed Board of Directors. The ones who make up the rules. I own the company. My family started the company 95 years ago, and I have to play by their rules. Pretty shitty deal, eh Roscoe?
ROSCOE:
I had no idea.
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Welcome to the corporate world. There's Reggie Sanders now, sitting with the rest of the limp dick directors.
(CUT TO: old rats sitting in leather chairs, smoking cigars.)
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Some of the most powerful rats in Chicago. Worth hundreds of millions of dollars as a group, and not one of them is bright enough to wipe their own ass. Wander around. See what you think. See if you belong. See if you want to belong. I'm going to head over to the champagne fountain and watch your friend act like a babbling idiot. What does a moron like that do for a living, anyway?
ROSCOE:
He's a psychologist.
MOTHER SARKISIAN:
Good Lord.
(ROSCOE looks about the room, eavesdropping on dull conversations, as MOTHER SARKISIAN exits.)
ELDERLY RAT #1:
(Puffing on a cigar while talking to another elderly rat who is holding a snifter of cognac)
Estelle and I absolutely refuse to ever set foot in that hovel of a country club again. I'll have you know that the towel boy in the locker room handed me a wash cloth that was only 200-count thread.
ELDERLY RAT #2:
What an abomination.
ELDERLY RAT #1:
It was the most dreadful experience of my life. I called for my driver and we left as fast as we could.
(ROSCOE turns his attention to a different conversation.)
RAT #3:
After we convinced the mayor to give us the exemption, we started plans for the new shopping center. He was furious.
RAT #4:
What a despicable move on your part. Sheer brilliance.
RAT #3:
Not only that, but our development team is forcing the housing project out of the neighborhood. Now our view of the riverfront won't be sullied with all those barbaric working-class rats and their off-the-rack clothing.
(ROSCOE looks back one more time to see STU dunking his head in the champagne fountain. MOTHER SARKISIAN notices ROSCOE leave. She has a pleased look on her face before she looks back at STU and rolls her eyes.)
INT. THE ELEVATOR DOOR
ROSCOE pushes button. WALKER comes up in the elevator and opens the door.
WALKER:
Is there a problem, sir?
ROSCOE:
I think I'm in the wrong place.
INT. INSIDE THE ELEVATOR
WALKER:
What about your friend?
ROSCOE:
He's right where he belongs. How about that Packers touchdown? Favre is something, isn't he?
WALKER:
Yes sir, he is. He certainly is. But I'm not giving up on the Bears just yet. I think we just might catch 'em looking ahead to the playoffs. I have a good feeling about this game.
ROSCOE:
So doesn't it get kind of distracting, trying to listen to the game with everybody buzzing you to haul them up and down?
WALKER:
Not at all. Once everyone gets settled into where they belong, I don't really move until the end of the game. Besides, it's always nice to have company.
ROSCOE:
Yeah. Yeah it is. So where do you park? To listen to the game?
WALKER:
Fifth floor. Smack dab in the middle is where I belong. That way I can get up to the top if somebody buzzes me or down to the bottom if somebody buzzes me. What about you, sir?
ROSCOE:
Huh?
WALKER:
What about you? Where do you belong?
(Elevator stops) Here we are sir. The north end zone. Sir?
ROSCOE:
Right. Thanks. Thanks very much.
WALKER:
You're quite welcome, sir. Enjoy the game.
(WALKER closes elevator door and ROSCOE watches it rise before turning to north endzone entrance.)
INT. THE NORTH ENDZONE
(ROSCOE walks back into the north endzone. Fans are screaming and food is flying. In the middle is ARTIE, on his phone, oblivious to everything around him.)
ARTIE:
Did you check in the back of the minivan? Sometimes he likes to sleep there.
(Pause) You do too, honey. Trust me. (Pause) Listen. You really do have a brother named Hummud-Abdullah. He really did leave the house with you this morning. He really is sleeping somewhere. You really do need to find him. Hold on sweetheart, I have another call. (Clicks over)Hello? Hello, Mrs. Brown. What? (Pause) No I don't think she really has typhoid fever. It's probably just a bad cold. (Pause) Right. By the way, Mrs. Brown, do you have any Play-Doh at your house?
(ARTIE gets drowned out by CROWD.)
CROWD:
Hey Favre, you suck! Come on defense! You play like a bunch of pussies! This game is a joke. I can't believe I paid to see this. Hey, get the hell away from my chili dog, you slob!
ROSCOE turns away.
INT. ELEVATOR DOOR AND STAIRWAY
(Next to the elevator door is a stairway entrance door with a sign above it that says, Skybox Suites 10th Floor. ROSCOE looks back at the north end zone entrance sign and then back at the Skybox sign. Then he looks at the floor lights above the elevator door. He sees number 5 is lit. He looks back and forth again, and then throws open the stairway door, flying up the steps to triumphant music. We see him running up the steps and he trips, hitting his face on a step. Music scratches like a needle across a record. He gets up and starts running again. As we see him come around another flight of stairs, looking at the door number, the music gets slower and slower until finally we get to the fifth floor, where ROSCOE collapses against the door, gasping for air.)
ROSCOE:
(Between gasps)
Jesus Christ. I'm having a heart attack. This is it. This is it. Oh God there's a pain shooting down me. I'm gonna die here. Oh.
(He holds his midsection and braces for the worst, which ends up being a loud fart. He opens his eyes, confused and then relieved.)
ROSCOE:
Chili dog.
(ROSCOE gets up, takes a deep breath. Opens door.)
INT. THE ELEVATOR
(ROSCOE opens door and there is WALKER, smoking a pipe and sitting at the little table in the elevator, listening to the game. The elevator door is open and he walks in. WALKER stands up, bewildered.)
WALKER:
Sir?
ROSCOE:
(Holding out his hand)
Roscoe Taylor.
WALKER:
(A bit confused, but extends the courtesy)
Walker Middleton.
ROSCOE:
I'm pleased to meet you, Walker.
WALKER:
I'm pleased to meet you, Roscoe.
ROSCOE:
Mind if I join you?
WALKER:
Why, that would be fine. That would be just fine.
(ROSCOE takes a piece of candy from dish and sits in chair. WALKER sits back down and picks up his pipe.)
WALKER:
Bears are within a field goal and they've got the ball at midfield. I told you I had a feeling something good might happen today.
ROSCOE:
You did tell me that.
(SHOT pans back as the two of them listen to the game on the radio, discussing strategies for the next play.)
END OF SHOW
