A Script for The Payphone at Sal's

INT. SAL'S RESTAURANT - DAY

A tomb of red Naugahyde and dark wood paneling. The air is thick with the ghosts of garlic, wet wool, and dust undisturbed since the Nixon administration. Rain lashes against blackened windows, blurring the world outside into a grey smear.

The place is empty, save for two men in their late 70s at a corner table.

STEVEN (70s), weary, watches his companion.

JEFFREY (70s), shrunken inside a tweed jacket, dissects a veal parmesan with the precision of a surgeon who loathes the patient. He is a man performing the role of himself.

SOUND of old refrigerator motors humming a low, mournful dirge.

And then--

A sharp, mechanical TRILL cuts through the hum.

On the wall near the lavatories, a rotary PAYPHONE, its plastic shell yellowed like a smoker's tooth, RINGS.

*Brrr-ing.*

Jeffrey does not flinch. He remains focused on his veal. A masterful performance of ignoring the obvious.

*Brrr-ing.*

The ringing continues, a relentless, rhythmic drill.

Steven feels the vibration in his molars.

JEFFREY

(Projecting to an imaginary back row)

The sauce is pedestrian. It lacks the requisite acidity. One requires a certain… violence in the tomato to counteract the fat, don’t you agree, Steven?

*Brrr-ing. Brrr-ing.*

STEVEN

It’s ringing, Jeffrey.

Jeffrey pauses, knife hovering. He gives Steven a look of profound pity.

JEFFREY

We are discussing the veal, Steven. Let us not be distracted by the ambient noise of the lower classes. Now, as I was saying, the acidity is the narrative arc of the dish. Without it, the palate is left unfulfilled. It is a tragedy in three bites.

He resumes cutting. A fleck of red sauce lands on his silk tie. He doesn't notice. His jaw works with a wet, CLICKING sound.

The ringing persists. Maddening. An intrusion. A demand.

Steven glances toward the bar. A WAITER (70s) leans against it, cleaning his fingernails with a matchbook, staring at a mute horse race on a small TV.

STEVEN

Are you going to get that?

JEFFREY

(Dabbing his lips)

It is not for me. And it is certainly not for you, my dear friend. Who would call you? The Guild? I believe you haven't paid your dues since the turn of the century.

STEVEN

(A small lie)

I paid them. I’m just saying, it’s ruining the atmosphere.

Jeffrey lets out a rich, baritone laugh too large for his chest.

JEFFREY

The atmosphere? Steven, look around you. The atmosphere is 'Terminal Decline'. The ringing provides a necessary tension. It is the inciting incident that never arrives. It is Beckettian.

He leans forward, eyes suddenly bright, manic. The whites are yellowing, swimming in moisture.

JEFFREY (CONT'D)

Speaking of tension, I have news. Tremendous news.

Steven sighs, pushing away his plate of gluey pasta.

STEVEN

You have an audition.

JEFFREY

Better. An offer. A direct offer.

STEVEN

For a commercial? Incontinence pads? Reverse mortgages?

JEFFREY

(A flash of old anger)

Do not be crass. A feature. An independent feature. A young director. Very avant-garde. He wants me for the lead. The patriarch. A King Lear figure, but set in a dystopian underground bunker.

The phone SHRIEKING now. It's screaming. Steven rubs his temples.

STEVEN

Jeffrey, the phone.

JEFFREY

(Whispering, ignoring him)

He says I have the face of a ruined civilization.

(Touches his own cheek)

Is that not poetic? A ruined civilization.

ANGLE ON JEFFREY'S FACE. Steven sees him clearly. A streak of poorly applied rouge sits high on the cheekbone. The hair is a harsh, shoe-polish black that ends abruptly at the white roots. A corpse prepared by a trainee mortician.

STEVEN

It sounds... heavy.

JEFFREY

It is weighty. But I have the stamina. I have the instrument.

He is seized by a wet, rattling COUGH. A deep, hacking sound that shakes his entire frame. He grabs the table's edge, knuckles white. The fit goes on and on.

Steven watches. Revulsion mixed with terrifying empathy.

Jeffrey finally recovers, wiping a string of saliva from his lip. He composes himself instantly.

JEFFREY (CONT'D)

The air quality in here is appalling. Asbestos, likely.

The phone STOPS.

The silence that follows is sudden, violent. It presses on the ears.

STEVEN

(Muttering)

Thank God.

Then it starts again. LOUDER. MORE URGENT.

*BRRR-ING! BRRR-ING!*

Jeffrey SLAMS his fork down. The cutlery CLATTERS against the china.

JEFFREY

(Bellowing at the empty room)

FINE! Fine! If the staff is too incompetent to manage their own telecommunications, I shall intercede!

He stands. A slow, agonizing process. He braces his hands on the table, pushes himself up. His knees POP audibly. He straightens his jacket, fumbling with the button.

JEFFREY (CONT'D)

I shall return. Do not let them clear my plate. I have not finished critiquing the breading.

Steven watches him walk toward the back. A hitch in his step, a limp he tries to hide, makes him sway like a ship in a swell.

He passes the oblivious Waiter. He approaches the yellow plastic shell. He stands before it, his hand hovering over the receiver. The ringing is deafening.

He picks it up.

The ringing STOPS.

Steven watches from the table. Jeffrey's back stiffens. He nods once. Twice. He holds the receiver with both hands, pressing it hard against his ear.

Minutes pass. The rain streaks the window.

Steven picks up a piece of cold bread. Hard as a stone. He chews.

Jeffrey hangs up the phone. He places the receiver back in the cradle with infinite care, as if it were made of glass.

He turns. The flickering fluorescent light in the hallway casts a greenish pallor on his face.

He walks back to the table. The limp is gone. He moves with a strange, fluid grace, gliding over the sticky carpet.

He sits down. He doesn't look at Steven. He picks up his napkin and places it back on his lap. The actor has left the stage.

STEVEN

Who was it?

Jeffrey picks up his knife and fork. He cuts a small piece of veal, inspecting it in the dim light.

JEFFREY

(Softly)

Wrong number.

His voice is different. Smaller. Flatter. Human.

STEVEN

All that ringing for a wrong number? Who were they asking for?

Jeffrey looks up. His eyes are clear. The manic brightness is gone, replaced by something dull, hard. A shutter has come down.

JEFFREY

They weren't asking for anyone, Steven.

He puts the meat in his mouth. Chews slowly.

JEFFREY (CONT'D)

They were just checking to see if anyone was still here.

Steven stares. The words hang in the air.

STEVEN

Here? In the restaurant?

JEFFREY

In the world.

He takes a sip of wine.

CLOSE ON Jeffrey's hand, holding the wine glass.

It isn't shaking anymore.

The restaurant is silent now, save for the rain. The phone is dead.

Jeffrey looks at his plate.

JEFFREY (CONT'D)

(A whisper)

The acidity... is actually quite profound, once you get past the initial disappointment. It lingers.

He takes another bite. The two old men sit in the crushing silence.

FADE TO BLACK.