A Script for Pine Pitch and Duct Tape

by Tony Eetak

[SCENE START]

**INT. APARTMENT HALLWAY - DAY**

SOUND of pouring rain, wind rattling a window

The space is narrow, claustrophobic. A seven-foot Douglas Fir is wedged violently in the doorway.

JULIAN (34) is pinned between the tree and the doorframe, his cheek mashed against the damp, rough bark. He smells raw pine and the muddy roof of his car. Pine needles drag across his neck. He GRUNTS with effort.

The tree doesn't move. It's winning.

Across the living room, SAM (33) stands by the TV, holding a steaming mug of tea. Her posture is one of detached, analytical critique.

> Pivot.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> (Wheezing)

> I can’t pivot. It’s stuck on the coat rack.

> It’s not stuck. You’re forcing it. Wiggle it.

Julian wiggles. The tree shudders, shedding a cascade of dead, brown needles onto the freshly vacuumed hardwood floor. A branch snaps back and WHIPS him in the ear. Rainwater clinging to the boughs soaks into his flannel shirt.

> Harder.

Julian plants his feet, his socks slipping on the floor. He heaves, putting his entire body into it.

A sound like TEARING CANVAS as the tree POPS through the doorway, taking a one-inch chip of white paint from the trim with it.

Julian stumbles forward, hugging the beast, and nearly topples over the coffee table. He wrestles it to the ground.

He stands, breathing hard, and wipes a smear of pine sap from his forehead. It just spreads, tacky and grey.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Okay. It’s in.

Sam takes a slow sip of her tea.

> It looks crooked.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> It’s lying on the floor, Sam. Of course it's crooked.

He cracks his back, surveying the dark, looming presence that has invaded their living room. It smells of wet woods and impending labour. He stares at it, a flicker of memory in his eyes—a perfect, glowing tree from his childhood, appearing as if by magic. The memory vanishes, replaced by the grim reality of the mess before him.

> Stand.

She points with her mug to a red metal contraption in the corner. The tree stand.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> I know. I'm getting it.

**INT. APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS**

**THE IRON MAIDEN**

Julian lies on his stomach, cheek mashed into the carpet. He holds the stand: a chipped, aggressive red water bowl with four rusted eye-bolts designed to maim human fingers.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> (Muffled)

> Lift it up.

Sam grabs the trunk, straining.

> It’s heavy.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> I know it's heavy. Just... lift. Straight up.

The trunk rises. A shower of dirt and wood chips falls from the stump, directly into Julian's eye. He blinks furiously, tears welling, but shoves the metal stand underneath.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Okay, drop it.

THUD. The impact vibrates through the floor.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Now hold it straight.

He grabs the first rusted bolt. It won’t turn. Fused with the sap of Christmases past. He strains, the metal biting into his thumb. Nothing.

> It’s leaning left.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> I haven't tightened anything yet!

> Just telling you. It’s listing. Towards the window.

Julian grits his teeth, pulls a pair of PLIERS from his back pocket. He clamps them on the bolt.

With a horrible SCREECH of metal on metal, the screw turns.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Okay, that's one side. Rotate me.

Sam tries to spin the tree. The stand spins with it, SCRAPING a long scratch into the hardwood floor.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> No, hold the stand! Spin the tree!

> I can't, the branches are in my face!

Julian rolls onto his back, staring up into the dark, spider-like undercarriage of the fir.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Okay. I'll move.

He crab-walks around the base. He cranks the second bolt. The tree shifts.

> Too far right.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Adjust it then.

> I am holding it with both hands, Julian. You adjust the screws.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> If I loosen the right one, it falls on you.

> Risk it.

He loosens the right. The tree LURCHES. Sam GRUNTS, planting her feet. Julian furiously tightens the other three screws. His knuckles are scraped raw. His hands are black with grease and pitch.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> (Breathing hard)

> Let go.

> I don't trust it.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Let go. We have to see.

She releases the trunk and steps back.

The tree stands. It holds.

Then, slowly, majestically, it tilts three degrees to the south-east.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Good enough.

Sam tilts her head, squinting.

> Yeah. We can put the heavy ornaments on the other side. Counter-balance.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Exactly. Physics.

**INT. APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - LATER**

**THE GORDIAN KNOT**

Julian hauls in a large plastic bin. On the side, his own sharpie handwriting: ‘LIGHTS - DO NOT TANGLE.’ He pops the lid.

Inside sits a single, dense, malevolent sphere of green wire and glass bulbs. A frozen snake orgy.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> I hate this. I hate this part the most.

Sam, now on the sofa with a magazine, doesn't look up.

> You packed them.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> I packed them carefully! I wound them around a piece of cardboard!

> I don't see any cardboard, Julian.

He plunges his hands into the mass. It’s cold, stiff. He finds a plug and PULLS. The ball tightens. He sits cross-legged on the floor, the sphere in his lap, and begins the maddening process of threading, weaving, pulling.

The only sound is the rain and the soft CLICK-CLACK of plastic bulbs.

He frees a two-foot section. A small victory. He pulls again—and the whole thing snags on a single rogue bulb. He YANKS it in frustration.

A tiny CRUNCH.

> Don't break them.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> I didn't.

Finally, the snake uncoils. A twenty-foot strand lies defeated on the rug. Julian stands, triumphant.

> Plug it in first. Before you put it on the tree.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> It works. I checked them last year.

> Check them now.

Julian sighs. He walks to the wall outlet, plugs it in.

Nothing. Not a flicker. The entire strand is dead.

He stares at the outlet. Wiggles the plug. The silence in the room is heavy, judgmental.

> (Whispering)

> ...told you.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> (Voice rising)

> It’s a fuse. It’s just a fuse. I have spares.

He scrambles back to the bin, dumping its contents. Spare bulbs, a broken candy cane, dust bunnies. No little plastic baggie of fuses.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> I have to harvest one. I have to cannibalize the other strand.

> Julian, just go to the store.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> No! I am not going to the store for a fuse in this rain. I can fix this.

He attacks the second ball of lights with frantic energy. He claws at the wires. He uses his TEETH to pry a loop loose, tasting bitter PVC.

Minutes later, he has the tiny glass fuse. He uses the tip of a steak knife to pop open the little door on the dead plug. He swaps them, his hands shaking with caffeine and rage.

He plugs it in.

A glorious, warm, incandescent LIGHT floods his face.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Yes!

He throws his hands in the air. Sam offers a slow, deliberate clap.

He approaches the tree. He begins the clumsy, sticky waltz. Around and around, ducking under branches, getting slapped by needles. The wire snags. He tugs. The tree WOBBLES.

> Careful!

<center>JULIAN</center>

> I got it, I got it.

He reaches the top and steps back, sweating.

> There are huge gaps. It looks like a spiral.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> It *is* a spiral, Sam. That’s the geometry of the situation.

> Push it in deeper. Towards the trunk. It needs depth.

Julian GROANS. He shoves his hands into the prickly interior, pushing wires back. Sap glues the hairs on his arms together. He steps back again.

The tree glows. It’s not perfect—bunched on the left, a dark patch on the bottom right—but it’s lit. The warm light softens the room, makes the rain feel cozy instead of hostile.

> (Softly)

> Okay. That’s better.

**INT. APARTMENT LIVING ROOM - LATER**

**GHOSTS IN THE TISSUE PAPER**

The frantic energy is gone. A quiet rhythm has taken over. Sam sits on the floor, opening a box of ornaments.

The CRINKLE of old, yellowed tissue paper is loud in the room. She unwraps a delicate silver glass sphere.

> My grandmother's.

She hands it to him. Julian takes it with two fingers.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> High branch?

> High branch. Deep inside. Where the cat can't reach.

He places it carefully. Next comes a wooden soldier. A felt reindeer with one eye. A weird, shrapnel-like wooden star.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Why do we keep this?

> Because you made it.

She unwraps another. She stops. Julian looks over. She’s holding a cheap, scratched, plastic blue bauble.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> What's that one?

> From our first apartment. The basement suite. With the mold.

Julian lets out a short, sharp laugh.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> God. That place. The radiator clanking all night.

> We bought this at the dollar store. We couldn't afford anything else.

She holds it for a second too long, her thumb rubbing a deep scratch on its side. Julian watches her. He sees the eight years between then and now. The cheap wine and the new mortgage. The weariness in her shoulders.

She looks up, catches him staring.

> What?

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Nothing. Put it front and centre.

> It's ugly.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> It's history. Put it up.

She gives him a small, tired, genuine smile and hangs the blue plastic ball on a prominent branch.

They finish the box. Julian drags a dining chair over and steps onto it, holding the topper: a simple, gold plastic star. He reaches for the tip of the tree. The branch is too long, flopping over under the star’s weight.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> It’s floppy.

> Fold it over.

He bends the branch in half, jams the coil on. It sits, slightly askew. A drunk monarch.

He steps down. Kicks the empty boxes aside. He walks to the wall switch controlling the overhead lights.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Ready?

> Ready.

He flicks the switch. CLICK.

The room plunges into darkness, then is instantly reclaimed by the tree.

The warm lights glow through the needles, reflecting off decades of glass and glitter. The silver balls throw light onto the walls, making shadows dance. The ugly blue bauble shines just as brightly as the antique glass.

It’s beautiful. It’s messy, leaning, and there’s sap on the carpet, but it’s beautiful.

The wind HAMMERS the window, but inside, it’s still.

Sam walks over to him. She leans her head on his shoulder. He puts his arm around her. His shirt is damp and sticky, but she doesn't mind.

> We did it.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> We survived.

> It looks good.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> It looks...

> (Searching)

> It looks like us.

Sam laughs softly against his shoulder.

> A bit crooked?

<center>JULIAN</center>

> And held together by friction and stubbornness.

They stand there for a long moment, the tension of the day unspooling in the warm glow.

> I'm starving.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Pizza?

> Pizza. Extra cheese.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Deal.

He squeezes her shoulder and pulls away to find his phone. He steps over a tangle of leftover twist ties and broken bits of pine.

He looks down at the extension cord running from the tree to the wall. It’s pulled taut, hovering an inch off the floor like a tripwire. A guitar string of potential disaster.

He smiles to himself. A small, weary smile.

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Hey, Sam?

> (O.S.)

> Yeah?

<center>JULIAN</center>

> Don't walk near the...

He doesn't finish. He just shakes his head and starts dialing. Tomorrow's problem.

[SCENE END]

About This Script

This script is part of the Unfinished Tales and Random Short Stories project, a creative research initiative by The Arts Incubator Winnipeg and the Art Borups Corners collectives. Each script outlines a potential cinematic or episodic adaptation of its corresponding chapter. The project was made possible with funding and support from the Ontario Arts Council Multi and Inter-Arts Projects program and the Government of Ontario.

These scripts serve as a bridge between the literary fragment and the screen, exploring how the story's core themes, characters, and atmosphere could be translated into a visual medium.