PLASTIC NEEDLES IN JULY
SOUND of harsh, rasping breaths
CLOSE ON STEVE'S FACE (72). Sweat runs in rivers down his temples, carving paths through a thick layer of gray grime. His eyes sting. His expression is one of pure, Sisyphean misery.
The space is coffin-narrow. The uninsulated roof radiates a brutal July heat, shimmering the air.
He is wrestling a large CARDBOARD BOX. The paper is dark with rot and moisture.
The bottom of the box gives way, forcing Steve to shovel his forearms underneath to cradle it. A dark patch of moisture instantly blooms on his t-shirt.
He HEAVES. The box scrapes across the splintered floorboards. The sound is like sandpaper on bone.
A woman’s voice, imperious and stage-trained, drifts up from below.
Steve grits his teeth, the air thick with the taste of fiberglass and dead wasps.
He kicks a stack of old National Geographics. They spill across the floor, a fan of yellow-bordered corpses. He doesn't care.
He shoves the box toward a square of light in the floor—the hatch. A cloud of ancient dust billows up, coating his wet face. He’s seized by a violent, rattling COUGH.
He recovers, panting. He maneuvers the box over the hole. It drops.
A heavy THUD from below, followed by a sharp rebuke.
Steve just closes his eyes, exhausted.
Steve’s worn sneakers appear on the ladder, followed by his body. His knees POP audibly as he descends.
The hallway is cooler, but only relatively. The air is stagnant, holding the summer heat like a grudge.
He wipes his face with the hem of his t-shirt, leaving a streak of gray sludge across the white cotton. He leans against the doorframe, wheezing.
The crumpled box sits in the middle of the runner carpet.
At the far end of the hall stands BETTY (74). Regal, severe. Her white hair is pinned in an architectural twist. She wears a midnight blue velvet dressing gown, completely at odds with the oppressive temperature.
She looks like a deposed queen awaiting the executioner.
She turns on her heel with a practiced, dramatic sweep.
She glides away, leaving Steve alone with the dead box.
Sunlight struggles through thick, drawn curtains, turning the room into an amber-hued cavern thick with dust motes. The air smells of lavender and stale cat food.
Steve drags the box onto a faded Persian rug, shoving a coffee table aside with his shin. He WINCES as wood connects with bone.
He slits the tape with his house key. The flaps fall open, revealing the compressed, flattened limbs of an artificial pine. It looks like green, plastic roadkill.
Betty sits in a high-backed wing chair, hands clasped, observing him with the scrutiny of a director.
Steve pulls out a rusted metal stand. He sits on the floor, legs splayed, and begins wrestling the bottom section of the tree into it, tightening the screws until his thumb cramps. He feels ancient. Absurd.
Steve looks at her. For a moment, the usual nonsense sounds... different. Heavier.
He jams the middle section of the tree into the bottom pole. It sticks. He grunts, twisting it. Plastic needles scratch his forearms, leaving angry red welts.
Steve gets to his feet, grabs the trunk with both hands, and drives it down. It seats with a dull THUNK.
He stands back, panting. The tree is a pathetic, mismatched skeleton of flattened branches.
She sweeps toward him, her velvet gown whispering against the floor.
She stops inches from him. Her grand theatricality collapses, just for a second. She smells of old powder and fear. Her voice is a raw whisper.
The plea hits him like a punch to the gut. He sees the tremor in her gnarled hands. The terror behind her eyes. His anger dissolves into a deep, aching fatigue.
He sighs.
They work in silence. The only sounds are the SHHH-SHHH of plastic needles being bent into shape and the TICK-TOCK of the grandfather clock in the hall.
Betty produces several battered shoe boxes. She hands Steve a tarnished red glass bauble.
Steve takes it. He sees his reflection in the curved glass: a distorted goblin with a bulbous nose and eyes swallowed by shadow. He hangs it. The branch sags.
He moves it. They continue, hanging spun-glass birds with moth-eaten feather tails, wooden soldiers with chipped paint. Ghosts of Christmases past.
Suddenly, Betty stops. She rummages through a box of tissue paper, her movements becoming frantic.
Steve freezes. He hasn't seen the wax-headed Angel in years.
She starts tearing the tissue paper apart, flinging white shreds onto the rug.
She turns on him, face flushed, sweat on her upper lip.
Steve looks around the room. At the long shadows of the furniture.
In her frenzy, she lunges for another box on a side table, knocking it. It tumbles to the floor.
A SICKENING CRUNCH.
The immediate, final tinkle of SHATTERING GLASS.
The silence SLAMS into the room.
Betty stares at the fallen box. Slowly, she sinks to her knees. Her trembling hand lifts the lid.
Inside, the shards of a dozen vintage glass bulbs glitter like diamond dust. A kaleidoscope of broken memories.
The theatricality is gone. Her voice is small, thin, like dried paper.
Steve kneels beside her on the rough carpet. He looks at the wreckage. He feels no anger. Only a strange, terrible clarity.
He picks up a sharp fragment of blue glass. Holds it to the light.
She looks up at him, tears cutting tracks through the powder on her cheeks. He hasn't called her that in twenty years.
He looks at the hideous, defiant plastic tree. He stands, his joints popping in the quiet room. He extends a hand to his sister.
She stares, confused. He doesn't wait for her to understand.
He strides to the grand window and RIPS the heavy curtains open.
Sunlight SLAMS into the room like a physical blow. Dust explodes into the air. The room is revealed in all its shabby reality—faded rug, water stains on the ceiling, the clutter of a lifetime.
Betty shields her eyes, shrinking back.
He walks to the mantelpiece, grabs a set of CAR KEYS from a china bowl. The metal is cool against his damp palm.
It's a lie. But his voice is firm, possessing a new resonance. He walks back to her, takes her hand, interlacing their fingers.
He pulls her gently but inexorably toward the hallway.
Steve opens the front door. The heat hits them, a wall of melting tar and hot metal. He leads a stunned Betty, still in her velvet dressing gown, down the cracked concrete steps.
An ancient VOLVO, covered in yellow pollen, sits in the driveway like a beached whale.
He opens the passenger door for her. The vinyl seats inside shimmer with heat. Betty hesitates, looking back at the dark parlour window where the plastic tree stands in the gloom.
He guides her into the seat and SLAMS the door. The sound echoes on the quiet suburban street.
He walks around to the driver's side, his heart hammering with a rhythm of fear and exhilaration he hasn't felt in years.
He slides behind the wheel. The air is stifling. He jams the key into the ignition.
The engine COUGHS, SPUTTERS... and then ROARS to life with a triumphant, rattling bellow.
Steve puts the car in gear. He doesn't look back. He looks at the road ahead, a shimmering ribbon in the heat haze.
He presses the accelerator. The old Volvo lurches forward, leaving the house and its ghosts behind.
FADE OUT.
Share This Script
