A Script for The Brass Mechanism

EXT. MAIN STREET - DAY

A wall of HEAT shimmers off the asphalt. The air, thick with exhaust and fried grease, is a physical weight.

ARTIE (62), in a linen suit that’s wilting faster than he is, dabs his forehead with a soaked handkerchief. He looks like a melting vanilla ice cream cone.

He ducks into the first doorway that offers shade. A peeling green sign reads: *Curiosities & Remnants*.

INT. CURIOSITIES & REMNANTS - DAY

Artie pushes the heavy glass door open. No bell rings. Instead, a dull THUD echoes from the ceiling.

The roar of Winnipeg traffic vanishes. The silence inside is absolute, smelling of old paper, decaying silk, and something sharp, like vinegar.

The shop is a labyrinth of towering shelves, a chaotic geology of discarded lives. Stacks of National Geographics form unstable pillars. Porcelain dolls with cracked faces stare from tarnished silver trays.

Artie moves deeper into the gloom, his shoes sticking slightly to the linoleum. He’s looking for nothing in particular.

Then he sees it.

In a glass case near the back, a mechanical BIRD sits on a bald velvet pedestal. It’s the size of a crow, constructed of brass and copper. Gears are exposed in its belly. Its wings are etched with impossibly intricate feathers.

Artie leans in, his breath fogging the glass. It is ugly. It is magnificent.

The brass bird BLINKS.

Not a mechanical shutter. A wet, grey membrane slides across a copper eye and retracts.

Artie recoils, stumbling. He grabs a shelf of ceramic cats to steady himself, sending a tremor through the porcelain menagerie.

<center>VOICE (O.S.)</center>

> It judges, does it not?

Artie turns. Partially obscured by a rack of moth-eaten fur coats is BETTY (70s). She is tall, skeletal, draped in a dress of indeterminate vintage. A wide-brimmed hat casts her eyes in shadow.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> I beg your pardon?

Betty glides out from behind the furs, moving with an unnatural smoothness.

<center>BETTY</center>

> The avian construct. I have been observing it for eleven minutes. It possesses a gaze of distinct moral superiority.

Artie looks back at the bird. It's perfectly still.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> (whispering)

> It blinked.

<center>BETTY</center>

> Did it? Or did the heat outside boil your vitreous humor? It is thirty-five degrees. The brain does peculiar things when it simmers.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> I saw it. A nictitating membrane. Biological. Wet.

Betty hums, a low, skeptical sound. She leans down, her face level with the glass case. The scent of lavender and old books drifts off her.

<center>BETTY</center>

> Curious. If it is alive, it is a prisoner. If it is a machine, it is a masterpiece. I am Betty, by the way. I feel names are necessary when one is hallucinating in a pawn shop.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> Artie. And I am not hallucinating.

<center>BETTY</center>

> Of course not, Artie. You are merely observing the surrealism of the mundane. Look at its claw.

Artie looks. The brass talons grip a small branch. Where the metal touches the wood, the wood is bruised, discolored.

<center>BETTY</center>

> (sweeping a hand)

> We are surrounded by debris. A toaster from 1950. A wedding dress, size four, yellowed with sweat. It is a mausoleum of triviality.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> These objects... they have history. Narrative.

<center>BETTY</center>

> (a sharp laugh)

> Narrative is a lie we tell ourselves to make the clutter bearable. That toaster does not have a story. It toasted bread. Then it broke. It is the physics of abandonment.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> You are a cynic, madam.

<center>BETTY</center>

> I am a realist, Artie. A cynic believes nothing matters. A realist knows that things matter, but usually for the wrong reasons.

She picks up a heavy crystal ashtray.

<center>BETTY</center>

> (CONT'D)

> This, for instance. A weapon, in the right hands. Its value is not in its beauty, but in its potential for blunt force trauma.

Artie manages a dry smile.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> And the bird? What is its potential?

<center>BETTY</center>

> Surveillance. It is not designed to sing. It is designed to record.

As if on cue, a sound emerges from the glass case. A burst of STATIC, then a tinny, distant man's voice.

<center>BIRD (O.S.)</center>

> (recorded voice)

> ...bacon, and perhaps the eggs, if you have time...

Artie freezes, the blood draining from his face.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> Did you hear that?

Betty looks vindicated.

<center>BETTY</center>

> Breakfast orders. From when? 1930? Yesterday? It is digesting the acoustic history of the room.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> This is absurd. It's a radio. A receiver hidden in the base.

<center>BETTY</center>

> Is it? Artie, consider the setting. We are in Winnipeg. In July. Is it so hard to believe that the heat has fused the timeline? That a brass bird might regurgitate a request for eggs?

<center>ARTIE</center>

> I... I came in for air conditioning.

A rhythmic TICK-TICK-TICK begins, emanating from the bird. Its brass chest plates expand and contract by a fraction of a millimeter. It's breathing.

<center>BETTY</center>

> What is your function, Artie?

<center>ARTIE</center>

> My... function?

<center>BETTY</center>

> You are wearing a suit that cost six hundred dollars. You have ink stains on your fingers. You are retired, but you dress like you are late for a board meeting. You are maintaining a facade. Why?

Artie looks at his ink-stained hands.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> I was... in administration. University. I organized things. I ensured that the chaos was contained.

<center>BETTY</center>

> And now?

<center>ARTIE</center>

> Now I organize my bookshelf.

<center>BETTY</center>

> A taxonomy of boredom. I was on the stage. Decades ago. I spent my life pretending to be other people. Now, I simply pretend to be myself.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> Is there a difference?

Betty's eyes narrow. A flicker of appreciation.

<center>BETTY</center>

> Bravo, Artie. A palpable hit. No, I suppose there isn't. We are all just curating our own exhibit, aren't we? You are the 'Retired Administrator' display. I am the 'Faded Actress.'

<center>ARTIE</center>

> That is... incredibly bleak.

<center>BETTY</center>

> It is incredibly liberating! If we are merely inventory, we have no responsibility. We just have to exist and wait for the estate sale.

Artie looks back at the bird. It has turned its head. It is looking directly at him.

<center>BIRD (O.S.)</center>

> (Artie's voice, tinny)

> ...eggs...

A cold shiver runs down Artie's spine.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> I think it's mimicking me.

<center>BETTY</center>

> It is learning. It is a parrot of the soul. It reflects what it sees. It sees you, Artie. A man who wants bacon and eggs and order.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> I haven't eaten bacon in ten years. Cholesterol.

<center>BETTY</center>

> The subconscious desires are the most flavorful.

> (taps the glass)

> Wake up, little monster. Tell us something true.

The bird opens its beak. A sound of GRINDING METAL, screeching gears, and then a woman's voice—Betty's, but younger, vibrant, full of tearful rage.

<center>BIRD (O.S.)</center>

> (Betty's young voice)

> I never loved him! I only loved the way he looked at me when I was on stage!

Betty goes rigid. Her theatrical posture collapses, revealing a slump of genuine, ancient exhaustion. The silence that follows is heavy with dust and secrets.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> (gently)

> A... dramatic reading?

Betty recovers, pulling her dignity back taut.

<center>BETTY</center>

> (brittle)

> Rehearsal. From 'The Seagull.' 1982. The Playhouse Theatre.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> Ah. Chekhov. Of course.

<center>BETTY</center>

> (whispering)

> It wasn't Chekhov.

> (clears throat, loud)

> Well. It seems this item is defective. A malfunctioning jukebox of regret.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> We should go.

The shop feels smaller. The walls of junk seem to be leaning in. In a corner, a handless grandfather clock's pendulum swings with a frantic, irregular rhythm. THUMP. THUMP-THUMP. THUMP.

<center>BETTY</center>

> Go? Where? Back into the oven? Out there, Artie, you are just an old man in a suit. In here... you are an audience.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> I don't like this place. It feels... predatory.

<center>BETTY</center>

> All commerce is predatory. This is just honest about it. We are inside the beast, Artie. We have been swallowed.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> You are enjoying this.

<center>BETTY</center>

> I find it preferable to bingo night. At least here, the madness is external.

Artie takes a step towards the door. The aisle has elongated, the perspective skewed. The door seems miles away.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> The door is... further away.

<center>BETTY</center>

> Space is relative.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> Betty, come with me. Let’s get an iced coffee. Somewhere with stainless steel counters and no history.

She hesitates. A flicker of fear in her eyes, quickly masked.

<center>BETTY</center>

> Modern cafes are sterile. They have no soul.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> I have enough soul for one day. I want sterility. I want predictability.

<center>BETTY</center>

> You are a coward, Artie.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> Yes. I am. And I am leaving.

He turns and walks. It feels like wading through water. He keeps his eyes forward.

<center>BETTY (O.S.)</center>

> (distant, distorted)

> Artie!

He stops. He turns.

Betty stands beside the case. The glass is gone. The brass bird is perched on her shoulder, its talons gripping the fabric of her dress. She sags under the weight, a terrified, rictus smile on her face.

Her voice comes from the bird's beak. Tinny. Metallic.

<center>BETTY/BIRD</center>

> It... likes... me...

<center>ARTIE</center>

> Betty, drop it.

<center>BETTY/BIRD</center>

> I cannot. I am part of the collection now. I am the 'Faded Actress with Brass Accessory.' Value: forty dollars. Negotiable.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> This isn't funny.

Tears cut tracks through Betty's powder.

<center>BETTY/BIRD</center>

> It is hilarious. It is the punchline. Run, Artie. Run before you become the 'Man in Linen Suit'.

Artie turns and RUNS. He sprints past the accusing dolls, past the grandfather clock beating like a dying heart.

He hits the front door with his shoulder. It doesn't budge. Locked.

Through the glass, Main Street is blindingly bright. People walk by, oblivious. A bus rumbles past. He pounds on the glass.

<center>ARTIE</center>

> (shouting)

> Hey! Let me out!

No one looks. He's invisible. An exhibit.

He turns back to the shop. The darkness has deepened. Betty is gone. The aisle is empty.

No. Not empty.

On the velvet pedestal, inside the glass case, there are now TWO birds. One large, brass, and ugly.

The other is smaller, delicate, made of silver wire and pale silk. It wears a tiny, wide-brimmed hat.

The silver bird opens its beak. A sound comes out. Betty’s sharp, barking laugh, cut short by the CLICK of a gear.

The grandfather clock stops ticking.

The silence is absolute.

Artie backs up until his spine hits the door. He slides down to the floor. He loosens his tie. He adjusts his pocket square.

He closes his eyes and waits.