A Script for Heat Haze

EXT. INDUSTRIAL YARD - DAY

A wall of heat. Waves shimmer off cracked asphalt. The air smells of hot pine and burning transmission fluid.

SOUND of distant highway drone, a fat fly buzzing

COLE (20s), face slick with sweat, stands before a chain-link fence. He wipes his neck with a grease-blackened rag. He stares at a GAP where a padlock should be.

On the dirt ground, a heavy chain lies severed. The cut is clean, precise. Angle grinder.

Cole pushes the gate. It SCREAMS on dry hinges. He steps into the yard, boots crunching on gravel and bits of twisted metal. His t-shirt clings to his spine.

He walks toward a corrugated tin shack—THE SHED. The door hangs open. He hesitates, dreading what's inside.

INT. SHED - CONTINUOUS

The heat is a physical wall. Dust motes dance in the harsh sunlight slicing through the open door.

In the center of the room stands a large, welded metal sculpture. Or what’s left of it.

Vertical steel beams, salvaged from a mill, are bent and warped. Delicate latticework in the center is smashed. Copper wiring has been ripped out, leaving jagged scars in the steel.

The worst part: a crude, jagged line of NEON ORANGE SPRAY PAINT slashes across the sculpture’s center.

On the concrete floor beneath it, a single word:

JUNK.

Cole’s face is a hollow mask. Not surprise. A dull, confirming ache. He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over a contact: LYNNE.

He dials. It rings.

SOUND of an impact gun whirring on the other end

It rings four times before she picks up.

<pre>

LYNNE (O.S.)

Yeah?

</pre>

Her voice is flat, all business.

<pre>

COLE

You need to come to the shed.

LYNNE (O.S.)

I'm on shift, Cole. I got a bumper

to sand.

COLE

Lynne. The gate was cut.

</pre>

Silence on the line. The impact gun stops.

<pre>

LYNNE (O.S.)

I'm leaving now.

</pre>

CLICK. She hangs up.

Cole lowers the phone. He finds an overturned bucket and sits, staring at the orange paint. The fat fly buzzes around his head, landing on his forearm. He swats it away.

He looks at the sculpture.

INT. SHED - NIGHT (FLASHBACK)

Sparks fly from a MIG welder.

LYNNE (20s), welding mask flipped up, sweat dripping from her chin, wipes soot from her forehead. She’s wearing grease-stained coveralls.

<pre>

LYNNE

Why are we doing this, Cole? Who’s

gonna look at this? The squirrels?

Old man Miller when he comes to

dump his trash?

COLE

It’s for the portfolio. For the

grant.

</pre>

The lie tastes like copper in his mouth.

<pre>

LYNNE

There is no grant. There’s just

us, playing pretend in a junkyard.

</pre>

She flips her mask down. The welder roars back to life.

INT. SHED - PRESENT

Cole stares at the word JUNK.

EXT. INDUSTRIAL YARD - LATER

A rusted Silverado, muffler held on by coat hangers, pulls up.

LYNNE gets out. She doesn't slam the door. She wears her coveralls tied at the waist, a grey tank top underneath. Her dark hair is in a messy knot.

She walks past Cole without a word, her steel-toed boots crunching on the gravel.

INT. SHED - CONTINUOUS

Lynne steps inside. She stands there for a long time, just looking. At the bent beams. The missing copper. The orange paint.

Cole watches her from the doorway. He expects an explosion. A kick to the wall.

Instead, her shoulders slump. Just a fraction. The air goes out of her.

<pre>

LYNNE

(quietly)

Copper heads.

COLE

Yeah. Probably.

LYNNE

They didn't have to bend the frame,

though. That was just... for fun.

COLE

Or spite.

</pre>

Lynne turns. Her face is hard angles in the harsh light. Her eyes are dark, exhausted.

<pre>

LYNNE

Spite implies they know who we are.

They don't. We're just the weirdos

storing trash in the shed.

</pre>

She walks to the sculpture, runs a gloved hand over the spray paint. It’s still tacky.

<pre>

LYNNE

Done last night. Or this morning.

COLE

I was gonna call the cops.

</pre>

Lynne lets out a dry, barking laugh.

<pre>

LYNNE

For what? Vandalism of refuse?

They'd fine us for operating an

illegal studio in a commercial

zone. You know that.

</pre>

She kicks a loose bolt. It skitters across the floor and HITS the far wall with a CLINK.

<pre>

COLE

So what do we do? Fix it?

LYNNE

Fix it?

(looks at him, incredulous)

It's structural, Cole. The heat

warp on those beams... we'd have to

cut it apart and start over. I

don't have the gas for that. I

stole the last tank of argon from

the shop and boss is already asking

questions.

</pre>

She sits on the grimy concrete floor. Pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lights one. Blue smoke mingles with the dust motes.

<pre>

LYNNE

I hate this town.

</pre>

It’s not a scream. It’s a statement of fact.

<pre>

COLE

You always say that.

LYNNE

Because it's always true. It eats

people, Cole. Chews them up and

spits them out grey. Look at my

dad. Thirty years at the mill, now

he just sits on the porch watching

cars go by. He used to carve wood.

Did you know that? Now he can't

hold a knife. Hands shake too much.

COLE

We're not your dad.

LYNNE

Aren't we?

</pre>

She gestures with the cigarette at the ruined sculpture.

<pre>

LYNNE

We're hiding in a shack making

things nobody wants, hoping a

gallery in Toronto discovers us by

telepathy. It's delusional.

COLE

It's practice.

LYNNE

It's masturbation. Something to do

so we don't have to admit we're

stuck.

</pre>

Ash falls on her jeans.

<pre>

COLE

I think I know who did it. Those

kids from the high school. The ones

at the quarry. I saw them buying

orange paint at Canadian Tire

yesterday.

LYNNE

(one eyebrow raised)

You saw kids buying paint. In a

hardware store. That's your lead?

Even if it was them, what are you

gonna do? Go beat up a bunch of

sixteen-year-olds?

</pre>

She takes a long drag.

<pre>

LYNNE

Let 'em have it. Maybe they enjoyed

breaking it more than we enjoyed

making it. At least someone got

some emotion out of the damn thing.

</pre>

Cole stands, agitated. He paces.

<pre>

COLE

So that's it? We just leave it?

LYNNE

I didn't say that.

</pre>

She stands. Walks to a corner, picks up an angle grinder. She checks the cord. It’s been cut. She drops it.

<pre>

LYNNE

We need a generator. And a new

grinder.

</pre>

Cole walks outside, squints at the electrical box on the side of the shed. It’s pried open. The fuses are gone.

<pre>

COLE

Gone. Copper again.

</pre>

Lynne emerges, blinking in the glare.

<pre>

LYNNE

Figures.

</pre>

EXT. INDUSTRIAL YARD - CONTINUOUS

Lynne walks to her truck, drops the tailgate and sits on it.

<pre>

LYNNE

You got any beer?

COLE

In the cooler. Probably warm.

</pre>

He retrieves two cans of generic lager from a Styrofoam cooler. They’re lukewarm, sweating. He hands one to Lynne. She cracks it open. Foam spills over her knuckles. She doesn’t wipe it off.

They sit in silence, drinking bad beer.

<pre>

LYNNE

My cousin is moving to Winnipeg.

Says there's work framing houses.

COLE

Winnipeg's cold.

LYNNE

It's a city. Cities have galleries.

Real ones. Not coffee shops that

hang paintings next to the

bathroom.

COLE

You gonna go?

LYNNE

(shrugs)

I don't know. Got the truck

payments. And Dad... he's not good,

Cole. He forgets to eat if I don't

put the plate in front of him.

</pre>

Cole nods. He looks out at the shimmering heat.

<pre>

COLE

I tried to paint the Sleeping Giant

yesterday.

LYNNE

And?

COLE

It looked like a bruise. Just a

big, purple bruise on the water. I

couldn't get the light right. It's

just... hard. Indifferent stone.

LYNNE

The landscape doesn't care, Cole.

That's the point. It was here a

billion years before us and it'll

be here a billion years after.

We're just moss. Temporary.

</pre>

She crushes her can in one hand.

<pre>

LYNNE

Let's go to the quarry.

COLE

Why?

LYNNE

If it was those kids, maybe they're

there. And if not... I need to

swim. I have grit in my teeth.

</pre>

EXT. QUARRY - LATER

SOUND of distant bass-heavy music, shouting, splashing

Lynne’s truck is parked on a dirt track overlooking a massive pit filled with unnaturally blue water.

Below, TEENAGERS sunbathe on flat rocks like lizards. A group of GUYS drink beer on the tailgate of a new F-150. It’s chaotic, bored summer energy.

Cole and Lynne stand at the edge, looking down.

<pre>

LYNNE

(low)

See any orange paint?

</pre>

Cole scans the crowd. Hands. Fingernails. Shoes.

<pre>

COLE

(whispering)

There.

</pre>

He points subtly. A SKINNY KID (17), in oversized swim trunks, sits on a rock near the water. Faint ORANGE SMUDGES stain his ankles.

Lynne’s eyes narrow. She starts walking down the slope. Cole grabs her arm.

<pre>

COLE

Lynne, wait.

LYNNE

Get off me.

COLE

What are you gonna do? Scream at

him? Look at his friends.

</pre>

He nods to the guys by the truck. They’re bigger than the kid. Bigger than Cole.

Lynne shakes him off but stops. She vibrates with tension.

<pre>

LYNNE

He wrecked our work, Cole. He

thinks it's funny.

COLE

It is funny to him. That's the

problem. We can't make him care.

</pre>

The Skinny Kid laughs at something, throwing his head back. He looks completely unburdened.

<pre>

LYNNE

(whispering)

I hate him. I hate him because

he's happy.

COLE

He's not happy. He's bored.

There's a difference.

</pre>

Lynne turns away, walking back to the truck.

EXT. THE POINT - LATER

A jagged finger of granite rock juts into a vast, grey lake. The water is darker here, colder. Waves slap against the rocks with a rhythmic, wet violence.

SOUND of wind and waves

Cole and Lynne sit on the rocks. Lynne has her boots off, her feet in the frigid water.

<pre>

LYNNE

My grandmother used to say the

water takes what it wants. She

wouldn't let us swim past the

drop-off.

COLE

Smart woman.

LYNNE

She wasn't mystical about it. She

was practical. Cold water cramps

your muscles. You sink. You die.

Physics.

</pre>

A long silence.

<pre>

COLE

I think I'm gonna quit the gas

station.

LYNNE

And do what?

COLE

I don't know. Go west.

LYNNE

You won't.

COLE

Why not?

LYNNE

Because you're scared you'll get

there and realize you're mediocre.

At least here, you can pretend the

town is holding you back. If you go

to Vancouver and fail, that's on

you.

</pre>

Cole flushes with anger.

<pre>

COLE

Thanks. Really supportive.

LYNNE

I'm not here to support you, Cole.

I'm here to tell you the truth.

That's what friends do.

COLE

Maybe I don't want the truth right

now. My art just got spray-painted

with the word junk.

LYNNE

(softly)

It *was* junk. That's what we're

not admitting. It was derivative.

We were trying to make something

that looked like 'art' instead of

making something that felt like...

this.

</pre>

She sweeps her hand out toward the grey water, the jagged rocks, the oppressive sky.

<pre>

COLE

This is ugly.

LYNNE

It's real. The mosquitoes, the

rust, the boredom. That sculpture?

It was too clean. Too desperate to

be liked. The vandal... in a messed

up way, he finished it. He added

the town to it. The orange spray

paint? That's the most honest part

of the piece.

</pre>

Cole stares at her. The idea settles in his eyes.

<pre>

COLE

So we leave it?

LYNNE

No. We take it back.

</pre>

A strange light enters her eyes. A focused, violent energy.

<pre>

LYNNE

We don't clean it. We weld it in.

We clear-coat the spray paint. We

bend the other beams to match the

damage. We make it look like it

survived a car crash.

COLE

That's dark.

LYNNE

This is a dark place, Cole. Stop

painting sunsets. Paint the bruise.

</pre>

She stands up, energized. The lethargy is gone.

<pre>

LYNNE

Come on. I know where we can get a

generator. My uncle has one. He

won't miss it for a few hours.

</pre>

INT. SHED - NIGHT

SOUND of a generator HUMMING loudly outside

The shed is a cave, lit by a single bare bulb.

Lynne, mask on, attacks the sculpture with a new angle grinder.

A VIOLENT GEYSER OF SPARKS erupts, illuminating the smoky room.

MONTAGE

- Lynne cuts into the bent beams, scarring them further.

- She grinds the edges of the orange spray paint until it looks burned into the metal.

- Cole picks up a sledgehammer. He doesn't ask. He starts hitting the untouched side of the frame. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

- CLOSE ON Cole’s face, a grim release as he smashes a delicate joint.

- ANGLE ON Lynne, a silhouette against a shower of orange sparks, a destructive creator goddess.

- They work in a furious rhythm, destroying and remaking. The shed fills with smoke and the smell of ozone.

END MONTAGE

The generator outside SPUTTERS and DIES.

Silence rushes in, heavy and ringing.

The only light comes from the single bulb and the dying red glow of the welds.

The sculpture stands in the center of the room. It’s a wreck. A ribcage pulled from a fire. The orange JUNK is still there, but now it’s framed by grind marks and burns. A title, not an insult.

Lynne takes off her mask. Her face is streaked with soot. Her eyes are clear, exhausted.

<pre>

LYNNE

Better.

</pre>

Cole looks at it. It’s ugly. Terrifying. It belongs here.

<pre>

COLE

Yeah. Better.

LYNNE

What do we call it now?

COLE

'Local Colour'.

LYNNE

(snorts)

Too clever.

COLE

'Friday Night'.

LYNNE

Maybe.

</pre>

She fishes the last two beers from the cooler. They’re warm as soup. She hands one to him.

<pre>

LYNNE

We're not getting that grant.

COLE

No.

LYNNE

And nobody is going to buy this.

COLE

Nope.

LYNNE

Good.

</pre>

She leans against the doorframe, looking out. Mosquitoes swarm the light bulb.

<pre>

LYNNE

I'm not leaving. I can't. My dad...

he doesn't know how to use the

microwave half the time.

COLE

I know.

LYNNE

But you should go, Cole. Seriously.

Before you start liking the smell

of burning plastic.

</pre>

Cole looks at his own hands, stained with grease and rust. He thinks of an un-filled-out college application. He looks at the mutilated sculpture in the dark. It feels like his.

<pre>

COLE

I'm not going anywhere.

</pre>

Lynne looks at him. No smile. Just a small, sad nod. A shared sentence.

<pre>

LYNNE

Okay. Then clean up the floor. I'm

not slipping on metal shavings

tomorrow.

</pre>

EXT. INDUSTRIAL YARD - NIGHT

Lynne walks to her truck. The engine COUGHS to life. She reverses. Headlights sweep across the cut fence, the weeds, the absolute nothingness.

Cole watches her taillights fade down the road.

He turns back to the shed. He doesn't clean the floor.

He reaches inside, turns off the light. He pulls the door closed but leaves it unlocked.

He walks to his own car, the gravel crunching loud in the silence. The storm that threatened all day never came. It just hangs there, suspended, waiting.