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| Plymouth Barracuda |
*I dreamt I was awarded a writer’s residency where the host was a highway motel.
Naturally, I packed my duffel bag and rocked up the next day to start it.
But WTH did I discover/do there?!
Well, you could only describe it as some bougie sort of existential mind-altering experience worthy of … of submission to a Netflix production company keen on the splatter movie short-shorts genre.*
It’s all about the script.
Setup:
Desert road movie.
Two misfits. Both creatives.
An A-grade actor with dyed black hair and one of those scalloped, receding hairlines/American. Keen to act and produce a new work near a place with three snow-capped mountains and a road called, the Desert Road.
A writer who had her first book published aged 51. Peach-toned hair/Kiwi. Keen to complete a new, ambitious project - a movie script.
They meet at a highway-side motel of nondescript architecture.
She’s come by Uber.
He drives a badass American muscle car. A Plymouth Barracuda ’71.
There are three cars in the car park. They belong to no one.
A mountain range is visible in the distance. Tumbleweeds tumble out of the tundra.
The motel owner’s son, a poppy-out-eyed greasy-haired youth is behind the desk. He will defo have a sick part to play later.
If you haven’t worked out the name of the US actor by now, let me help you.
Nicolas Cage. All 6 ft of him.
And the wannabe script-writer. Janet Bloomwayfieldmouth. 164 cm.
Scene 1:
Actor and writer greet.
They don’t say much.
Until they’ve shared a bottle of vodka. Something cheap. Finlandia.
They discover they’re the same age. 57!
They get to work on their movie script.
They sit on opposite sides of the bed in the poorly furnished motel room. They brainstorm like crazies.
Great visuals, genuinely droll snitches of dialogue, and kickass one-liners fly around the room.
Much like the overpowering patchouli-odor of the room deodorizer, which is giving Janet the sneezes.
Nicolas finds a box of coarse tissues in the bathroom for her.
The shiny brown quilt threatens to slip right off the bed.
The room is smoke-free but cigarette smoke seems to weep from the faux wood veneer headboard.
Nicolas sucks relentlessly on a grape-bubblegum vape. He explains he’s trying to give up the darts as he blows perfect smoke rings.
Janet tries without fail to find a window that opens. They both now have headaches.
Nicolas says, We’ve done great work, Janet. Let’s take a break.
He lifts the non-cordless phone beside the bed and dials '1' for the restaurant. He orders 2 x spicy pepperoni pizzas and a bottle of Finlandia.
Scene 2:
Nicolas and Janet catch forty winks.
There’s a knock on the door. RAT A TAT TAT. TAT.
Nicolas takes the safety off his Colt 44. He’s been in short, desert road movies before.
Janet opens the door. She hands over a fifty and casually says, Keep the change.
The greasy motel youth laughs like a hyena and asks, Would you like extra sauce with that?
He hands over the pizzas. Then he pulls out a lady handgun and aims it at Janet’s face. He attempts to pull the trigger.
Pepperoni pizza and what could be brains now splatter the ugly quilt.
Nicolas steps out from behind the door and wastes the youth.
He gathers up the script from the bedside table and flicks through it.
It’s covered in Janet’s boarding school handwriting. He has no idea what it says. It must be in a native language.
He thrusts the still warm Colt down the back of his jeans. The barrel rests under his Calvins, between his butt crack. He harrumphs and kicks the youth out of the way. Loser arsehole.
Scene 3:
Nicolas puts Janet’s hands in prayer position over her heart.
He grabs his vinyl hold-all and the vodka. He leaves the pizza, it’s covered in carpet fluff.
The motel car park still has the three cars belonging to no one in it.
A tan, three-legged dog jogs, past sniffing the air.
Nicolas pulls the door of unit 66 shut.
He does a stunt jump into the open front window of the Cuda. Forgetting he’s on the wrong side. It’s a right-hand drive.
Overcome with emptiness and emotion he slugs half the bottle of Finlandia and grabs the packet of Dunhills from the glovebox.
Lights up and takes a deep drag. Then another.
With the cig casually held in the corner of his mouth, he drops a spectac donut, peppering the motel sign with gravel.
Then he floors-it and fish-tails onto the highway.
He wipes the tears from his eyes with the back of his hairy hand, almost burning himself on his cigarette.
Such a waste.
That was a great project. Janet was great to work with.
Oh well, writers are a dime a dozen.
Final Scene:
The Plymouth Barracuda ’71, flies westwards, airborne.
Into the blinding sun.
Janet is at the door of unit 66, waving.
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