An aggressively grey October sky hangs over a university campus.
The SOUND of wet, squelching mud.
This isn't a path. It's a wound between two austere brick buildings—a steep, treacherous incline of dark soil and rotting maple leaves.
TIM (20), a bundle of anxious energy in fashionable but useless canvas sneakers, wrestles with JEROME, a life-sized, naked, anatomical mannequin. Jerome is dead weight. Tim hugs him like a dance partner who has passed out.
Jerome’s rigid plastic heel digs into Tim’s hip. Tim grunts, hoisting the torso higher.
Jerome’s left arm swings loose. The joint emits a high-pitched SQUEAK, like a dying bird. The plastic hand slaps Tim squarely in the ear.
He adjusts his grip, fingers slipping on the cold silicone waist. His breath puffs out in white clouds.
A gust of wind whips around the corner. It stings Tim’s cheeks and blows his dark hair into his eyes. He tries to puff it away. He stumbles.
CLOSE ON Tim’s sneaker. The tread slides over a patch of slime-coated mulch.
IN SLOW MOTION--
The world tilts. Tim’s eyes widen. Physics is about to deliver a lecture.
His feet go out from under him. He tips backward. Jerome, ever loyal, comes with him.
They hit the ground with a wet, SQUELCHING THUD.
Tim lands flat on his back. The air is knocked out of him in a wheezing gasp. Jerome lands directly on top, face-down. His cold plastic forehead BONKS against Tim’s chin.
Tim groans, staring up past Jerome’s impassive shoulder at the grey sky. Cold mud seeps through his denim jacket.
He shoves at the mannequin. It doesn’t budge. The strap of his messenger bag has wound itself around Jerome’s neck and arm, lashing them together in a grotesque, muddy embrace.
He wiggles. The strap tightens. He tries to roll, but just slides a few inches downhill, dragging Jerome with him. Trapped.
He lies still for a beat, defeated.
SOUND of heavy boots crunching on gravel nearby. A steady, rhythmic pace.
Tim squeezes his eyes shut. Play dead. You're an art installation. Title: Idiot in Mud.
The footsteps stop. Silence, save for the wind rustling dry leaves.
A deep, hesitant voice.
Tim opens one eye.
Standing at the top of the incline is SAM (21). Tall, wearing a dark green parka that looks warm and practical boots that are actually made for this terrain. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder and a look of profound bewilderment mixed with genuine concern.
Sam blinks. His eyes travel from Tim to the naked mannequin lying on top of him.
A small smile tugs at the corner of Sam’s mouth. He takes a few careful, sure-footed steps down the slope, his boots digging securely into the mud. No slipping. Show-off.
Sam crouches beside them. He smells like coffee and sawdust. A small, white scar cuts through his left eyebrow. He reaches out, his hands large and capable, grabbing Jerome’s shoulder.
Sam lifts. Muscles shift under the parka. Jerome rises a few inches. Tim’s fingers fumble with the wet, stiff canvas strap.
Sam twists the mannequin.
There is a loud, plastic CLICK. Jerome’s head rotates a full 180 degrees to stare directly at Sam.
Sam jumps, startled, nearly dropping the whole thing.
Tim yanks the strap free.
Sam hauls Jerome fully upright, setting him on his feet where he lists to one side. Tim scrambles up, slipping once before finding his balance. He’s a mess of mud and wet leaves.
Sam straightens up, grinning now. It’s a nice grin. It makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. He looks from Jerome back to Tim.
Heat rises in Tim’s cheeks.
Sam laughs again.
Sam looks at Jerome, who is slowly sinking into the soft earth. Then he looks at Tim, shivering and covered in muck.
Sam hoists Jerome under the armpits. Tim hesitates, then grabs Jerome’s plastic ankles.
They carry Jerome horizontally, like pallbearers at the world’s weirdest funeral. They walk in synchronized steps across the asphalt. A few students stop and stare. One girl takes a photo. Tim tries to hide his face behind Jerome’s calf.
The elevator has an "OUT OF ORDER" sign that looks permanent.
Tim and Sam grunt, maneuvering Jerome up a narrow flight of concrete stairs. The SOUND of their echoing footsteps and labored breathing fills the space.
A large, airy room that smells of turpentine and sawdust. Canvases lean against walls, and tables are cluttered with projects.
They deposit Jerome onto a large worktable with a loud CLATTER and a collective, relieved exhale.
Tim leans against the table, wiping his forehead with a muddy sleeve. He’s acutely aware of how he must look. Sam, by contrast, just looks a little windblown.
Sam doesn’t leave. He lingers, looking around the studio.
He looks back at Tim. His gaze is direct, making Tim’s stomach do a little flip.
Sam laughs. He takes a step toward the door, then stops. He pulls a permanent marker from his parka pocket, uncapping it with his teeth. He grabs a scrap of paper from the table—a gallery flyer—and scribbles on the back.
He slides it across the table to Tim.
Tim stares at the paper. Jagged, all-caps handwriting.
He walks backward to the door, his hand on the frame.
Sam disappears. The heavy door swings shut with a soft CLICK.
The silence of the studio rushes back in.
Tim looks at Jerome, who stares blankly at the ceiling.
He picks up the scrap of paper. He looks down at his ruined, mud-caked jeans. He’s a mess. He probably smells like a swamp.
But a genuine, small smile spreads across his face, feeling warm in his chest.
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