(Classic Peter) Sara's Apartment

Sometimes when the screenwriting just isn’t flowing, I’ll sit down and just write something. The only rules for this process are; 1) No planning or outlining, and 2) No going back to fix mistakes or re-writing.

Out of one of these experiments a while back, came the following:

————-

SARA’S APARTMENT

The elevator doors slide open and immediately the smell of cabbage cooking hits her in the face. Sara steadies herself against the aromatic onslaught and walks down the hallway towards her apartment, lugging two large paper grocery bags full of sundries.

Coldplay’s “Clocks” on her iPod – 60 gig photo model, ’cause that’s how she rolls – has her in a great mood.

Confusion that never stops.
The closing walls and the ticking clocks.

Sara is gorgeous. And every other day she kind of feels that way. She looks even younger than her age, despite the phantom wrinkles that only she can see. She’s decked out perfectly – in a way that only other women could truly appreciate. The outfit is Donna Karan. The shoes are Jimmy Choo. The hair IS her natural color. Other women hate her when they find that out.

Her breasts are real too. Women hate that even more.

Sara fumbles with trying to fish her apartment keys out of her pocket. She manages to free them, but butterfingers ’em and they fall on the floor. She bends down to pick them up, nearly losing the contents of one of her bags. She quickly rights herself, and in the process kicks her keys halfway under her door.

She takes a deep breath and tries to let Coldplay soothe her.

Home, home, where I wanted to go.

No dice.

She shuts off the iPod – she calls it Pedro for some reason – and yanks out the earbuds. She stogs Pedro into one of the grocery bags and begins analyzing the keys situation.

Her thinking is interrupted by the yipping of a small dog.

“Mr. Big,” she yells. “Be quiet!”

The dog inside her apartment keeps yipping. Loudly.

“Keep it down over there!” A voice bellows from the next apartment.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ramirez,” Sara replies. “It’ll just be another second.”

Sara grabs the keys and tries to remove them from under the door. She then realizes that something is working against her. She tugs harder and hears a “Grrrrrr.”

“Mr. Big, let go of those keys!”

If Sara didn’t have more keys than a junior high janitor on her ring, the dog would have already made off with them.

“Let go!”

The dog grrrrs some more, but refuses to release the keys.

“Neutered!”

Mr. Big yelps and Sara hears paws scampering away. She quickly frees the keys and starts opening her locks.

The apartment door swings open and Sara enters. She is looking considerably less Zen than she did even a few moments ago.

Her phone immediately begins ringing.

Sara – bags still in hand – uses her leg to close the door behind her, thus causing a run in her pantyhose. This displeases her.

“Fudge!” she yells.

“Quiet over there!” Mrs. Ramirez bellows through paper-thin walls.

Sara rolls her eyes as she places her bags precariously on a small telephone stand, and grabs her phone.

“Hello?” she mostly sighs.

“I don’t think your father ever gave me an orgasm in thirty years of marriage” a voice on the other end of the phone confides.

“Hi Mom.”

Mr. Big – a shih tzu, and even small for one of those – returns from exile and begins yipping loudly for attention.

Almost before the first yip is out of his mouth, Mrs. Ramirez weighs in again through the wall, “Shut that dog up!”

“Sorry!” Sara yells back.

“Sorry for what?” her mother asks.

“Nothing, Mom. What can I do for you?”

“I’m a young vibrant woman. I have needs that–“

“I’m begging you not to finish that thought, Mom.”

“You’d prefer I just wither up here? Never again experiencing the humanizing feel of a man’s touch?”

“You and Dad have only been divorced for a month.”

Beep.

“Mom, that’s my other line. Hang on a second.”

Mr. Big starts barking loudly at the bags of groceries on the telephone stand. Mrs. Ramirez bangs on the wall. Sara runs her hand through her hair as she switches lines.

“Hello…”

“Honey, what do you know about Hedonism?”

“Dad?”

“Yeah. So, I’m online looking at a website for a resort that specializes in hedonism. I am thinking of taking the few sheckles your mother left me and going on vacation. This place sounds great. Skinny dipping. Indulging your inner child.”

“Dad, that sounds wonderful.”

As her father launches into a diatribe about how her mother refused to dress up as Wonder Woman for him, and had toe nails like a ring-tailed lemur, Sara notices her calendar on the wall.

The 12th – two days from now – was circled in red lipstick. Sara smiles. Steve was arriving at LaGuardia at exactly 8:35 pm.

They met through mutual friends, and had really only spent one weekend together so far. But, she was already fairly certain that Steve was the one. He was the only man she has ever met that could quiet the voices in her head. She never felt more like herself then when she was with Steve. He was tall, handsome, and other than his geographic location, he was absolutely perfect for her.

She’d be in his arms in two more days. She could handle anything.

“No oral sex for nine years!” shook her out of her day dream.

Trying not to let that visual into her head, Sara sees Mr. Big jumping up and knocking one of the bags of groceries on the floor. Mixed nuts, clementines – like small oranges – spill everywhere.

Mr. Bag barks loudly at his vanquished paper bag foe.

“Oh sh–oot.” Sara mutters.

“Don’t make me go over there!” Mrs. Ramirez threatens.

“Dad!” Sara says tersely, “Hang on, I have to check the other line.”

Click.

“Mom?”

“Sweetie, what do you know about vibrators? I am looking at one in this catalogue. It’s called ‘The Blue Missle.’ But it looks rather large. I want to pleasure myself, not impale myself.”

“Yeeeah. Hold that thought.”

Click.

“Dad?”

“What are ‘alternative lifestyles?”

“I think hedonism sounds great, pops. Enjoy yourself. Slather sunblock… like, everywhere. I gotta run. Bye!”

Click.

“Mom?”

“Do you have any ‘AAA’ batteries?”

Sara watches as Mr. Big pushes a Clementine along the floor with his nose. He rolls it faster and faster, until both run smack into the wall. Mr. Big barks at the clementine for it’s role in the mishap.

Mrs. Ramirez knocks even harder on the wall.

Sara is just about at the end of her rope.

Beep.

“Mom hang on a second?”

Click.

“Hello.”

“Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

It’s Steve!

“Steve!” (I told you.) “Hiiiiii. Two more sleeps!”

“Yeah, about that…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Sara, you remember when I told you that we had a new client in London?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, Maxwell wants me to go over there this weekend to hold the client’s hand. The guy is having some buyer’s remorse and I need to make sure that the deal doesn’t go south.”

“Oh… “

“I feel so bad about this, sweetie. I was so looking forward to spending time with you.”

“Same here.”

“I’m going to move some stuff around. Next month for sure. I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Well, I gotta run out to a meeting right now. I’ll call you later tonight, okay?”

“Okay. See you.”

Sara is crestfallen. She remembers her mother.

Click.

“Mom…”

“How does one know how much girth they can handle?”

Sara exhales sadly. She stares down at the floor and something catches the corner of her eye.

A large pile of dog crap.

Her sadness is quickly turning to anger.

“Son of a… gun. That is bigger than you are!” She says to Mr. Big — who replies with something of a shrug. You know, if dogs can shru
g.

Her mother replies, “Do you think so? I don’t think I’m particularly dry for my age.”

Mr. Big barks at Sara.

More knocks on the wall.

Sara turns to yell something towards Mrs. Ramirez, but steps on a clementine, causing her feet to come out from under her. Sara lands unceremoniously on her back, with her skirt up around her waist.

“Oh that’s it!” she yells.

More knocking, but this time at the door. Sarah’s eyes glow with anger. She drops the phone and runs over to her fireplace and grabs the little shovel dealie. She quickly scoops up the heaping pile of dog crap and walks to the door.

“I got a little something for you, Mrs. Ramirez,” she says as she swings the door open and launches the dog shit in one quick motion.

Sara sees it happen in slow motion. Except that the shit is actually flying towards the face of… STEVE.

Before he can react, the crap lands smack dab in the middle of his face.

They stand facing each other. They are both shocked. Steve probably moreso, since his face is covered in shit afterall.

“I-I was just trying to surprise you.” Steve mumbles.

A chunk of crap falls off his nose and lands on the floor. Steve looks down at it. Then back up at Sara. He starts to speak, but then stops. Still baffled, he just turns and walks away down the hall.

Sara slowly closes the door in disbelief.

Mr. Big barks.

Mrs. Ramirez knocks loudly on the wall.

Sara starts walking towards her bedroom.

“I’m getting a fucking cat.”

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  1. April 14, 2009

    […] “Sara’s Apartment” […]

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