A desolate, rural landscape frozen solid. Snow blankets everything in a pale, indifferent gray.
A lone, beat-up HONDA CIVIC idles in front of a detached garage. The garage door’s white paint is peeling, a rusted handle sagging. A half-scraped sticker reads ‘SUPPORT LOCAL LOGGERS’.
SOUND of the Civic’s rough, uneven engine shuddering. Exhaust plumes in the frigid air.
JIMMY (23), anxious and articulate, sits behind the wheel. The car’s heater blows lukewarm air at his knees. He stares at the garage, lost in thought.
He pulls out his PHONE. The screen is cracked. An open PDF for a grant application glows in the dark.
CLOSE ON PHONE SCREEN
The text of an artist statement. "Exploring the liminal spaces of rural decay..."
Jimmy winces. A look of self-loathing.
He kills the engine.
SOUND: The engine cuts out. An oppressive, ringing SILENCE rushes in.
Jimmy jams a toque over his ears, takes a breath, and gets out.
The cold hits Jimmy like a physical blow. He crunches through hard-packed snow to a side door and, without knocking, pushes it open and steps inside.
A violent assault on the senses.
It’s aggressively HOT. A cast-iron wood stove in the corner glows a menacing red. The air is thick with the metallic smell of burning copper, flux, and old chainsaw oil.
SOUND: LOUD, THRASHING PUNK ROCK vibrates off the corrugated metal walls.
SIMON (23), pragmatic and grounded, is hunched over a workbench, his back to the door. A welding mask is flipped down over his face.
A chaotic fountain of SPARKS showers around his leather apron as he works. A demon in a mechanical hell.
Jimmy kicks the door shut. The latch rattles. He stands for a moment, letting the heat thaw the numbness in his cheeks. He watches Simon work with an air of annoyed admiration.
He walks over to a dusty boombox and slams the stop button.
SOUND: The music cuts out abruptly. The only sound left is the sharp HISS of Simon’s acetylene torch.
Simon releases the trigger. The hiss stops. He methodically turns off the gas, then flips up his mask. His face is streaked with soot, sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead. He looks exhausted.
Simon grabs a rag from the bench, wiping his neck. It leaves a streak of grease.
Jimmy leans against a stack of winter tires, crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his armpits.
Simon tosses the rag down, picks up a water bottle, and drains half of it. He eyes Jimmy over the plastic rim.
Simon snorts.
Simon leans back against the workbench, ankles crossed.
Jimmy walks past him to the wood stove, holding his hands out to the radiating warmth.
He turns, his back to the stove. The heat is a welcome pain.
Simon shrugs, picking up a wrench and turning it over in his hands.
A quick, crooked smirk cracks the grime on Simon’s face.
Simon hesitates. He looks from the twisted mass of metal on his bench back to Jimmy.
Simon steps aside. Jimmy moves closer, squinting in the harsh overhead shop light.
ANGLE ON THE WORKBENCH
A sculpture. It's the suggestion of a HAND, made of heavy chain links welded rigid, reaching up, fingers grasping at nothing. The wrist is shackled to a heavy, rusted brake drum. It looks painful. Desperate.
Jimmy’s chest tightens. It’s exactly how he feels.
Jimmy lets out a sharp laugh that bounces off the metal walls.
Simon moves closer, reaching past Jimmy to grab a file from the bench. His arm brushes Jimmy’s shoulder. The contact is brief, accidental, but a jolt runs through Jimmy. He doesn’t move away.
Simon pauses, file in hand. His expression is unreadable.
Simon turns to him fully. His eyes are dark, rimmed with fatigue.
He gestures at the walls, at the implied world outside.
Simon steps into his space. He smells of sweat and iron.
Jimmy looks up at him. Simon is taller, broader.
The playful glint in Simon’s eyes vanishes.
It’s not a question. It’s a flat, heavy statement. Jimmy swallows, sweating under his layers.
Simon turns away, picking up the file and aggressively rasping it against a rough weld.
SOUND: The grating SCRITCH. SCRITCH. SCRITCH of metal on metal.
Jimmy watches the tension in Simon’s shoulders, the flex of his forearm. He wants to reach out, to shake him, to kiss him. The confusion makes him dizzy.
Simon spins around, slamming the file down on the bench.
The air snaps tight. Simon glares, his chest heaving. For a beat, he looks like he might hit him.
Instead, he lets out a harsh, humorless laugh.
The anger drains out of him, replaced by weary resignation. He shakes his head.
Jimmy hesitates, then sighs. He walks to a sticker-covered mini-fridge, pulls out two cans of cheap lager. He cracks one open, hands it to Simon, then opens his own. The aluminum is painfully cold.
He takes a long pull. They lean back against the bench, side-by-side. Their shoulders touch. Neither moves away.
Jimmy stares at his boots.
Simon turns his head, looking down at Jimmy.
He nudges Jimmy with his shoulder.
A reluctant smile touches Jimmy’s lips.
Jimmy groans, tilting his head back to look at the dusty rafters. He pulls out his phone. The blue light is harsh in the dim garage.
Jimmy clears his throat. He feels exposed.
He stops, looking at Simon. Simon is staring at him, intense and unblinking.
Jimmy looks at him, surprised and seen.
Simon finishes his beer and CRUSHES the can in one hand. The sound is loud, final. He tosses it into an overflowing recycling bin.
Jimmy checks the time. The thought of his cold, silent apartment is unbearable.
Simon moves to the wood stove, opening the door to stoke the fire. The orange glow illuminates his face, softening its harsh angles. Jimmy watches him, a familiar ache in his chest.
He looks at the sculpture again. The hand, chained and reaching. He gets it now.
Simon doesn’t look up. The fire POPS sharply.
Simon closes the stove door with a CLANG. The room plunges back into semi-darkness. He stands, wiping his hands on his pants. He looks at Jimmy. For a moment, the mask is gone. He looks young. Scared.
He turns and walks toward a small door at the back of the garage.
Simon disappears through the door.
Jimmy stays by the bench. He looks at his phone, the cursor blinking at the end of his sentence. Erosion of the self. He thumbs the screen off, sliding it into his pocket.
He looks at the empty space where Simon was standing. The heat from the stove radiates across the room, reaching for him.
FADE TO BLACK.
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