Plastic Needles in July

**PLASTIC NEEDLES IN JULY** **SCENE 1** **INT. ATTIC CRAWLSPACE - DAY** SOUND of harsh, rasping breaths CLOSE ON STEVE'S FACE (72). Sweat runs in rivers down his temples, carving paths through a thick layer of gray grime. His eyes sting. His expression is one of pure, Sisyphean misery. The space is coffin-narrow. The uninsulated roof radiates a brutal July heat, shimmering the air. He is wrestling a large CARDBOARD BOX. The paper is dark with rot and moisture. The bottom of the box gives way, forcing Steve to shovel his forearms underneath to cradle it. A dark patch of moisture instantly blooms on his t-shirt. He HEAVES. The box scrapes across the splintered floorboards. The sound is like sandpaper on bone. A woman’s voice, imperious and stage-trained, drifts up from below. BETTY (O.S.) > Make haste, Steve! The light is fleeing! Steve grits his teeth, the air thick with the taste of fiberglass and dead wasps. STEVE > (gasping) > I am proceeding with all possible velocity, Betty. He kicks a stack of old National Geographics. They spill across the floor, a fan of yellow-bordered corpses. He doesn't care. He shoves the box toward a square of light in the floor—the hatch. A cloud of ancient dust billows up, coating his wet face. He’s seized by a violent, rattling COUGH. He recovers, panting. He maneuvers the box over the hole. It drops. A heavy THUD from below, followed by a sharp rebuke. BETTY (O.S.) > Careful! You treat the vessel as if it were common refuse! Steve just closes his eyes, exhausted. **INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY - DAY** Steve’s worn sneakers appear on the ladder, followed by his body. His knees POP audibly as he descends. The hallway is cooler, but only relatively. The air is stagnant, holding the summer heat like a grudge. He wipes his face with the hem of his t-shirt, leaving a streak of gray sludge across the white cotton. He leans against the doorframe, wheezing. The crumpled box sits in the middle of the runner carpet. At the far end of the hall stands BETTY (74). Regal, severe. Her white hair is pinned in an architectural twist. She wears a midnight blue velvet dressing gown, completely at odds with the oppressive temperature. She looks like a deposed queen awaiting the executioner. STEVE > The vessel... is crumbling, sister. As are we. BETTY > Do not be pedestrian, Steve. It does not suit your complexion. She turns on her heel with a practiced, dramatic sweep. BETTY (CONT'D) > Bring it to the parlour. The grand window. We must catch the golden hour. She glides away, leaving Steve alone with the dead box. **INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY** Sunlight struggles through thick, drawn curtains, turning the room into an amber-hued cavern thick with dust motes. The air smells of lavender and stale cat food. Steve drags the box onto a faded Persian rug, shoving a coffee table aside with his shin. He WINCES as wood connects with bone. He slits the tape with his house key. The flaps fall open, revealing the compressed, flattened limbs of an artificial pine. It looks like green, plastic roadkill. Betty sits in a high-backed wing chair, hands clasped, observing him with the scrutiny of a director. BETTY > Commence with the base, obviously. And ensure the stand is level. I shall not tolerate a leaning tower of celebration. Steve pulls out a rusted metal stand. He sits on the floor, legs splayed, and begins wrestling the bottom section of the tree into it, tightening the screws until his thumb cramps. He feels ancient. Absurd. STEVE > Betty. It is July the fourteenth. The Bastille has fallen. The Yuletide is five months away. BETTY > (a dismissive wave) > Time is a construct of the merchant class. You know this. The atmosphere dictates the ritual. The air is heavy. It portends. Steve looks at her. For a moment, the usual nonsense sounds... different. Heavier. BETTY (CONT'D) > We must prepare. He jams the middle section of the tree into the bottom pole. It sticks. He grunts, twisting it. Plastic needles scratch his forearms, leaving angry red welts. BETTY > You are struggling. STEVE > (snapping) > It is the heat. The plastic has expanded. Physics, Betty. Not incompetence. BETTY > Excuses are the refuge of the unimaginative. Force it. Steve gets to his feet, grabs the trunk with both hands, and drives it down. It seats with a dull THUNK. He stands back, panting. The tree is a pathetic, mismatched skeleton of flattened branches. BETTY > (rising) > Fluff the branches, Steve! Give it volume! Give it life! She sweeps toward him, her velvet gown whispering against the floor. BETTY (CONT'D) > It looks like a drowned rat! STEVE > It is a fake tree, Betty! It has no life! She stops inches from him. Her grand theatricality collapses, just for a second. She smells of old powder and fear. Her voice is a raw whisper. BETTY > Then give it yours. > (beat) > Make it real, Steve. Please. The plea hits him like a punch to the gut. He sees the tremor in her gnarled hands. The terror behind her eyes. His anger dissolves into a deep, aching fatigue. He sighs. STEVE > (softly) > Very well. We shall fluff. They work in silence. The only sounds are the SHHH-SHHH of plastic needles being bent into shape and the TICK-TOCK of the grandfather clock in the hall. Betty produces several battered shoe boxes. She hands Steve a tarnished red glass bauble. BETTY > On a sturdy bough. Mid-level. Steve takes it. He sees his reflection in the curved glass: a distorted goblin with a bulbous nose and eyes swallowed by shadow. He hangs it. The branch sags. BETTY > Higher! He moves it. They continue, hanging spun-glass birds with moth-eaten feather tails, wooden soldiers with chipped paint. Ghosts of Christmases past. Suddenly, Betty stops. She rummages through a box of tissue paper, her movements becoming frantic. BETTY > Where is the Angel? The Seraphim. The Harbinger. Where is she? Steve freezes. He hasn't seen the wax-headed Angel in years. STEVE > I do not know. BETTY > She must crown the apex! We cannot conclude the ritual without the sanctification! She starts tearing the tissue paper apart, flinging white shreds onto the rug. STEVE > Betty, calm yourself. We can use the Star. The foil star... BETTY > (shrieking) > The Star is insufficient! The Star is merely geometric! The Angel watches! The Angel knows! She turns on him, face flushed, sweat on her upper lip. BETTY (CONT'D) > If we do not place her, the darkness will not recede! Don't you see the shadows, Steve? They are lengthening! Steve looks around the room. At the long shadows of the furniture. STEVE > There are no shadows, Betty. Only furniture. BETTY > You are blind! You have always been blind! In her frenzy, she lunges for another box on a side table, knocking it. It tumbles to the floor. A SICKENING CRUNCH. The immediate, final tinkle of SHATTERING GLASS. The silence SLAMS into the room. Betty stares at the fallen box. Slowly, she sinks to her knees. Her trembling hand lifts the lid. Inside, the shards of a dozen vintage glass bulbs glitter like diamond dust. A kaleidoscope of broken memories. The theatricality is gone. Her voice is small, thin, like dried paper. BETTY > Oh... Oh, Steve. Look what I've done. Steve kneels beside her on the rough carpet. He looks at the wreckage. He feels no anger. Only a strange, terrible clarity. He picks up a sharp fragment of blue glass. Holds it to the light. STEVE > It is just glass, Bea. She looks up at him, tears cutting tracks through the powder on her cheeks. He hasn't called her that in twenty years. BETTY > But it is broken. It is all broken. And we cannot fix it. STEVE > No. He looks at the hideous, defiant plastic tree. He stands, his joints popping in the quiet room. He extends a hand to his sister. STEVE (CONT'D) > Rise, Betty. BETTY > (sniffling) > Why? STEVE > Because the floor is hard, and we are not done. > (beat) > Forget the Angel. We do not need the Angel. And we do not need this tree. She stares, confused. He doesn't wait for her to understand. He strides to the grand window and RIPS the heavy curtains open. Sunlight SLAMS into the room like a physical blow. Dust explodes into the air. The room is revealed in all its shabby reality—faded rug, water stains on the ceiling, the clutter of a lifetime. Betty shields her eyes, shrinking back. BETTY > Too bright! It burns! STEVE > Let it burn. He walks to the mantelpiece, grabs a set of CAR KEYS from a china bowl. The metal is cool against his damp palm. BETTY > Steve, you cannot drive. Your eyes... the cataract... STEVE > My eyes are fine. It's a lie. But his voice is firm, possessing a new resonance. He walks back to her, takes her hand, interlacing their fingers. STEVE (CONT'D) > We are going to the coast. I recall a pine tree near the cliff edge at St. Jude's. A real one. Twisted by the wind. Alive. BETTY > (breathless) > St. Jude's? That is three hours away. STEVE > Then we shall have a pilgrimage. He pulls her gently but inexorably toward the hallway. **EXT. FRONT WALKWAY / DRIVEWAY - DAY** Steve opens the front door. The heat hits them, a wall of melting tar and hot metal. He leads a stunned Betty, still in her velvet dressing gown, down the cracked concrete steps. An ancient VOLVO, covered in yellow pollen, sits in the driveway like a beached whale. BETTY > But I am in my dressing gown! STEVE > You are a queen. Queens dress as they please. He opens the passenger door for her. The vinyl seats inside shimmer with heat. Betty hesitates, looking back at the dark parlour window where the plastic tree stands in the gloom. BETTY > It will be waiting for us. STEVE > No. It won't. He guides her into the seat and SLAMS the door. The sound echoes on the quiet suburban street. He walks around to the driver's side, his heart hammering with a rhythm of fear and exhilaration he hasn't felt in years. He slides behind the wheel. The air is stifling. He jams the key into the ignition. The engine COUGHS, SPUTTERS... and then ROARS to life with a triumphant, rattling bellow. Steve puts the car in gear. He doesn't look back. He looks at the road ahead, a shimmering ribbon in the heat haze. STEVE > Navigate, Betty. Point us toward the water. He presses the accelerator. The old Volvo lurches forward, leaving the house and its ghosts behind. **FADE OUT.**