A Script for The Slide Carousel

EXT. WINNIPEG STREET - DAY

The air is a visible, shimmering haze. Heat radiates off the asphalt in waves. A bus belches exhaust.

CASEY (22), sharp and witty but visibly wilting, walks down the sidewalk. Her bangs are pasted to her forehead with sweat. She looks overwhelmed, lost. She glances at her reflection in a storefront window, then looks away.

She needs an escape. Her eyes land on a cluttered shop window. The sign reads: 'Second Time Around.' She ducks inside.

INT. SECOND TIME AROUND THRIFT SHOP - DAY

The air is cool, still, and smells of cedar and old paper. The shop is a perpetual twilight, sunlight choked out by shelves stacked to the ceiling with a labyrinth of discarded histories.

Casey navigates a narrow aisle flanked by towers of VHS tapes and ceramic mugs ('World's Okayest Golfer'). She runs a hand over a heavy, amber glass ashtray.

<center>CASEY (V.O.)</center>

> Did I email the registrar? Is the lease up on the 31st or the 1st? Why do my knees hurt? Is twenty-two too young for knee pain?

She puts the ashtray back. The CLINK of glass on metal is loud in the quiet.

A rhythmic THWACK-HISS... THWACK-HISS... draws her toward the back. An old oscillating fan pushes dust motes through the air.

In the electronics section, a graveyard of cables and clocks, something bulky sits on a folding table: a Kodak Carousel slide projector. Dark gray metal, black plastic, built like a tank. Beside it, a round tray full of slides.

Casey touches the cool lens housing. She finds the thick, three-pronged cord and crouches down, her knees POPPING audibly. She plugs it into a power strip on the floor.

Nothing. She jiggles a switch.

<center>CASEY</center>

> (whispering)

> Come on. Don't be dead.

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

> You have to hold the fan button down while you hit the lamp switch.

Casey looks up.

GEOFF (23) stands at the end of the aisle, holding a terrifyingly ugly lamp shaped like a fish. He wears a faded band t-shirt and has dark hair in a messy bun, glasses sliding down his nose.

<center>MAN'S VOICE (CONT'D)</center>

> It's a safety thing. Keeps the bulb from blowing.

<center>CASEY</center>

> A safety feature? From the era of lawn darts and lead paint?

Geoff offers a quick, crooked smile. He sets the fish lamp down carefully on a chair.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Yeah, well. Bulbs were expensive. I'm Geoff, by the way.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Casey.

She turns back to the projector, holding down the fan button. A deep, mechanical ROAR starts up, like a small plane taking off. She hits the lamp switch.

A beam of intense, yellow-white light shoots out, cutting through the dust and hitting a beige trench coat hanging on a rack.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Focus is on the side.

He steps closer, hands in his pockets. He smells like coffee and rain on concrete. Casey finds the focus wheel and twists. The square of light on the trench coat sharpens.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Okay. Moment of truth.

She hits the 'Forward' button. CLUNK. A mechanical arm shoves a slide into the gate. The light shifts.

Projected on the trench coat is a washed-out, magenta-tinted image: a BACKYARD BARBECUE. People in high-waisted shorts and horn-rimmed glasses hold red plastic cups.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Whoa. Instant ghosts.

Casey adjusts the coat to flatten the image.

<center>CASEY</center>

> It’s weird, right? Buying someone else's memories. Who were these people?

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Maybe they died.

> (winces)

> That was dark. Sorry. I work in IT, I deal with dead hard drives all day. I default to 'catastrophic failure' as an explanation for everything.

Casey lets out a short laugh.

<center>CASEY</center>

> No, it's a valid theory. Estate sale leftovers. The things the grandkids didn't want.

She clicks to the next slide. CLUNK-WHIR.

A LANDSCAPE. A calm, blue lake. An upside-down canoe on the shore. No people.

<center>CASEY</center>

> That looks peaceful. I could use some of that. My brain feels like the intersection of Portage and Main right now.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Yeah? What's the traffic jam? School?

<center>CASEY</center>

> Graduation. The 'what comes next' void. I have an Art History degree and a lease that's ending. I’m vibrating with uselessness.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> I get that. I studied structural engineering for three years before I dropped out to fix laptops. My parents were... thrilled. But I like fixing small things. Bridges are too much pressure.

<center>CASEY</center>

> So you chose low stakes.

She clicks the button. CLUNK-WHIR.

A CLOSE-UP of a GOLDEN RETRIEVER in a party hat. It's out of focus, its nose filling the frame.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> I chose manageable chaos.

<center>CASEY</center>

> (looking at the blurry dog)

> Manageable chaos. I like that. Right now, I feel like I'm supposed to be building a bridge, but I don't even have a hammer. I'm just... looking at the river.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> The river's not so bad. You can swim. Or just float.

<center>CASEY</center>

> I'm not a strong swimmer. I feel like I'm waiting for permission to do something. Like an adult is supposed to come in and say, 'Okay, Casey, here is your assigned plot line. Go be a protagonist.' But nobody comes.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Nobody comes. You just kind of... start walking. And hope you don't fall in a manhole. Next slide. Let's see where they went.

Casey clicks. CLUNK-WHIR.

The image changes. A WOMAN, young, sits on the hood of a powder-blue car. She isn't smiling. She looks off-camera, holding a map, wind blowing her hair across her face. Long shadows stretch behind her.

<center>CASEY</center>

> (softly)

> She looks lost.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Or determined. Look at the map. That’s not a road map. Topographic maybe?

<center>CASEY</center>

> You think she’s looking for something?

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Treasure.

> (deadpan)

> Or a campsite. But treasure is a better story. Maybe she stole the car.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Definitely stole the car. She’s running away from a boring job at a... button factory.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Button factory? Specific.

<center>CASEY</center>

> My aunt worked at one. Apparently, it’s soul-crushing. You dream in circles. So she stole the car, grabbed the map, and drove north. To the lake.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> And the guy taking the picture? Accomplice or hostage?

<center>CASEY</center>

> Accomplice. But a reluctant one. He’s the one who worries about the gas mileage. Like you.

Geoff laughs, a real, full sound.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Hey, I’d be a great getaway driver. I’d just make sure we had snacks and a tire iron first. Practicality isn't the enemy of adventure, it’s the fuel.

<center>CASEY</center>

> That sounds like something a guidance counselor would say.

She clicks the button. CLUNK-WHIR.

The next slide is a total BLUR. Streaks of light.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Art. Abstract expressionism.

<center>CASEY</center>

> (smiling)

> Failure. A mistake they kept anyway.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> That’s the thing about these old carousel trays. You couldn't delete them. You took the picture, you paid to develop it, and then you had it. Even the bad ones... Now, we just swipe and delete. We curate everything. These people... they kept the blurry dog.

<center>CASEY</center>

> I delete like five photos for every one I keep. My life looks great on Instagram. In reality, I’m eating cereal for dinner and avoiding my landlord.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Cereal is a solid dinner choice. But I get it. The curation is exhausting. This...

> (gestures to the projector)

> ...is just happening. It’s raw.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Raw and dusty. Do you think they found it? The campsite? Or the treasure?

<center>GEOFF</center>

> I think they found something. They kept the slides, didn't they? If it was a disaster, the carousel would be in a landfill, not a thrift store.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Unless they died immediately after.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> You really are morbid, aren't you?

<center>CASEY</center>

> I’m a realist with gothic tendencies.

The SHOP OWNER (60s, tweed) walks by the end of the aisle.

<center>SHOP OWNER</center>

> If you burn out that bulb, you're buying it.

He keeps walking.

<center>CASEY</center>

> (whispering)

> We should probably turn it off.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Wait, one more. Let's see the end of the trip.

Casey presses the button one last time. CLUNK-WHIR.

The final slide drops. A hand-painted wooden SIGN, nailed crookedly to a tree. The paint is peeling. It reads: *B-Side Diner. 5km.*

<center>GEOFF</center>

> B-Side Diner. Never heard of it.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Me neither. And I know every diner in a fifty-kilometer radius.

Geoff pulls out his phone, tapping quickly.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Okay... nothing on Maps... wait. Here’s a blog post from 2008. Some guy documenting abandoned roadside attractions.

He turns the phone to her. A grainy photo of a COLLAPSED BUILDING. But the sign is there, leaning against rubble. *B-Side Diner*.

<center>CASEY</center>

> It’s gone. Of course it is.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Wait, look at the location tag. Highway 6, past Grosse Isle. That’s not far. Like, forty minutes.

<center>CASEY</center>

> To see a pile of rubble?

<center>GEOFF</center>

> To see the place where the woman on the hood was going.

> (he looks at her)

> You said you were waiting for a plot line. A quest.

Casey looks from the phone to the projector, then to Geoff. A beat.

<center>CASEY</center>

> It’s going to be hot.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> My car has AC. And I have a cooler in the trunk. It might contain grape soda.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Grape soda? Are you twelve?

<center>GEOFF</center>

> I have sophisticated tastes. So? Are we buying the slides?

Casey looks at the carousel of strangers' memories. It's junk. It's perfect.

<center>CASEY</center>

> We have to. We can't leave her here.

Geoff grins. He reaches over and hits the fan switch. The machine winds down with a dying GROAN. The light fades. The silence rushes back in.

AT THE FRONT COUNTER

Geoff and Casey place the heavy projector and the tray on the counter. The Shop Owner rings it up.

<center>SHOP OWNER</center>

> Fifteen dollars. No returns.

Geoff pays. Casey holds the slide tray like a pizza box.

EXT. WINNIPEG STREET - CONTINUOUS

They step outside. The heat hits them like a physical blow. The sun is blinding.

Casey squints, adjusting her grip on the tray.

<center>CASEY</center>

> So. Highway 6?

Geoff unlocks a dusty, dented silver Honda Civic.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> Highway 6. If we leave now, we can get there before the light gets bad. We can take a photo. Make it slide number eighty-one.

<center>CASEY</center>

> I don't have a film camera.

Geoff pops the trunk. Inside, among computer cables, is an old Canon SLR.

<center>GEOFF</center>

> I do. Always prepared.

A genuine smile breaks across Casey's face. For the first time in weeks, the knot in her chest loosens.

<center>CASEY</center>

> Shotgun.

She throws her bag in the back seat.

The Honda pulls away from the curb, merging into traffic. Through the side mirror, Casey watches the thrift store disappear. The heat doesn't feel so heavy anymore.