Something fun from the cooler
Somebody write this script, please
It was late and I’d just spilled a tiny bit of my third glass of wine on the stack of newspapers in the
already read pile. Usually I get inspired by the news, but nothing was catching my eye. I
don’t spend time on the big news items, but scan the smaller stories of obscure science discovery, small town police
activity and off beat human interest. That’s where I find material for off beat essays or bits to
add to characters and back stories in the book I’m absolutely going to start this winter.
The
phone rang and I jerked awake. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Moose Legs?”
I had to think a moment. Moose Legs is the name of my website and the corporate account
name I would use if I ever made any money at writing. Moose Legs gets a lot of offers in the mail for tools
to manage all that money. “I don’t want a credit card.”
A
trill of laughter. “No, no, we want you to write something! Are you available?”
“Sure, I guess . . . what time is it? Who is this?”
“Buz Buzby, Tectonic Films, hey, it’s always later than you think, isn’t it, glad to have you onboard,
here’s the deal. We just bought the rights to a hot story in Alaska and need someone with your background
to write the script pronto. What’s your fax number, I’ll shoot you the contract.”
“Uh, I don’t have a fax. What story did you buy?” I
admit, I was intrigued. I flipped mentally through several recent items from the Alaska papers.
“Some little town, trick-or-treaters robbed at gunpoint for their candy, you gotta love that, the robbers
were women. Excuse me . . . I’ve got one of your stars on the line, hold on.”
I used the break to remember the story. Talkeetna children on Halloween were robbed of their
candy at gunpoint by two masked women in a pickup. My mind had done a quick scenario as I read the story.
I had the women as young, wracked with PMS, out looking for chocolate to keep from killing their men back at their
cabins. The only open store is more miles away than they have gas in the truck, so, being desperate yet
practical rural women, they dig the ski masks and gun out from under the seat and shop from the kids. It
was a wonderful story except for the scaring the bejeezus out of children part. No one was hurt, the kids
got the license number and the troopers found one of the women through the men. A local tavern was involved,
no surprise. I wonder about the second woman. Is she on the run with the candy?
Will the kids get counseling? Will Talkeetna youngsters all pack heat next Halloween?
Man! Nothing like that ever happened when I lived there, but that was a long time ago.
It will be a story to follow, for sure, maybe I’ll call a buddy of mine in Talkee--.
“I’m back and e-mailing you the contract and the cast, don’t write in more than four more characters and
none with lines. I’m thinking sort of a Bad Santa thing, but I’ll need a script by Thursday
and we’ll talk about the product placements. They drink iced coffee in Talkeetna, right?
Everybody drinks iced coffee.
“Well, not as much as some
other beverages, I would guess, but, uh, this Thursday?”
“Hey, make me happy, you’ll
hear from my assistant, gotta run.”
I hung up and looked for my wine glass, finding it on its
side on the front page of a newspaper. I stood and reached for it, planning to go fill it.
I stopped when I focused on a bulleted news item magnified by the empty bowl of the glass. ‘Hollywood
screenwriters to go on strike.’ This could be good. I may need a corporate credit
card.
Nita Nettleton
November
4, 2007
