Windchill
Caught in the brutal freeze of a Winnipeg November, Jeff tries to keep pace with Simon, whose dramatic declarations are as biting as the north wind.
EXT. DOWNTOWN WINNIPEG STREET - LATE AFTERNOON
SOUND of a relentless, howling WIND
The concrete towers of Portage and Main create a wind tunnel. The sky is a flat, oppressive sheet of galvanized steel.
JEFF (17), bundled in a practical but worn parka, hunches his shoulders against the assault. His face is pinched, his eyes watering from the cold. The tears cool on his cheeks.
Three paces ahead, SIMON (17) marches. He wears a long, dark wool coat that flaps behind him like a cape. No hat. His dark hair is a chaotic mess. He is performing for an audience of one.
SIMON
> (Shouting over the wind)
> It is a hostile entity! Do you feel it, Jeff? The malice? Nature is not indifferent here. It is actively offended by our presence.
Jeff jogs to catch up, slipping on a patch of black ice.
JEFF
> (Gasping)
> I feel... that we should have waited for the bus.
SIMON
> The bus is a surrender! To wait in that glass coffin of a shelter is to admit defeat. We move. We generate heat. We live.
JEFF
> (To himself)
> We freeze.
The wind rips the words away. Jeff shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, knuckles scraping lint. He looks miserable.
Simon swings around a light pole, cheeks flushed a violent red. He looks magnificent and ridiculous.
SIMON
> Pick up the pace, Jeffnard!
JEFF
> (Breathless)
> My name is Jeff. And my legs aren't as long as yours.
SIMON
> Details. We are racing the dying of the light. Do you see it?
He points a gloved hand at a sliver of bruised, peach-colored sun disappearing between two office towers. It’s only 4 PM.
They reach an intersection and stop for a red light. Simon vibrates with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Jeff leans against the metal traffic control box, exhausted. The cold seeps through his jacket.
JEFF
> Why are we doing this? Seriously, Simon. It's minus twenty with the windchill. My toes are numb. Why the Forks?
Simon turns. The theatrics drop for a second. His dark eyes are frantic, hyper-awake. He steps closer, blocking the wind. The smell of cedar soap and old wool.
SIMON
> (Voice low, intense)
> Because nothing happens in the warm, Jeff. Comfort is the enemy of revelation. We need to see the river freeze. We need to see the moment the water gives up.
JEFF
> The water doesn't give up. It just... changes state. Physics.
The light changes. The WALK sign flashes.
SIMON
> Do not reduce the tragedy of the seasons to thermodynamics! Forward!
He spins and runs into the crosswalk. A pickup truck turns, HONKING aggressively. The DRIVER flips them off.
Simon stops mid-street and gives the driver a full, dramatic bow. Jeff grabs his arm and pulls him to the other side.
INT. UNDERGROUND WALKWAY - MOMENTS LATER
SOUND of the wind cuts out, replaced by the low HUM of fluorescent lights.
The air is warm, smelling of floor wax and fast food. The sudden silence is jarring.
Simon shakes phantom snow from his coat, looking at his reflection in the dark window of a closed office. He aggressively swipes his hair back into place.
SIMON
> Sanctuary. We made good time. But we cannot linger. The subterranean labyrinth is a trap. It makes you soft.
JEFF
> (Unzipping his jacket)
> It makes me warm. Can we just stay here? Grab a donut? The river will still be there tomorrow.
SIMON
> Tomorrow it will be solid. I need to see the struggle. The slush. The in-between.
He starts walking again, boots squeaking on the linoleum. Jeff trots to keep up. A SECURITY GUARD watches them warily.
JEFF
> You're weird today. Weirder than usual. Did something happen? Did your mom... ask about the play?
Simon's shoulders flinch. A microscopic tightening.
SIMON
> The matriarch is irrelevant to the mission. This is about existence, Jeff. Pure, unadulterated existence.
EXT. ESPLANADE RIEL BRIDGE - DUSK
They burst out of a door near the train station, back into the biting cold. The sky is now a deep, angry purple. Simon points.
SIMON
> The bridge. We must ascend.
They run up the ramp onto the white suspension bridge.
SOUND: A ferocious, high-pitched WAIL as wind screams through the bridge cables. It vibrates in the teeth.
Below, the Red River is a churning sludge of grey water and grinding ice chunks.
Simon stops in the middle of the bridge. He grips the railing, knuckles white, and stares down at the dark water.
SIMON
> (Shouting over the wind)
> Look at it! It doesn't want to stop. It fights the ice. It churns. But the cold wins. The cold always wins.
Jeff huddles beside him. He glances at the river, then at Simon's face, transfixed and tragic.
JEFF
> (Yelling back)
> It's not winning! It's just resting. It melts in the spring. It comes back.
Simon turns his head slowly. His eyes are watery from the wind.
SIMON
> You are painfully optimistic, Jeffnard. It is a fatal flaw.
JEFF
> And you're painfully dramatic. It's a coping mechanism.
Simon lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, stolen by the gale.
SIMON
> Perhaps. Or perhaps I am the only one who sees the tragedy of it all.
JEFF
> What tragedy? That it's cold? Everyone knows it's cold, Simon. We live in Winnipeg. It's the factory setting.
SIMON
> (Voice dropping)
> Not the weather. The timing. The inevitable freezing of things that should be fluid.
Simon is staring at Jeff's mouth. Jeff nervously licks his chapped lips. The theatrical mask slips from Simon's face. He looks young. Scared.
He lets go of the railing and turns fully to Jeff. He reaches out a gloved hand, hesitates, then awkwardly brushes a piece of hair from Jeff's forehead. The leather is cold, the touch is careful.
SIMON
> (Rushed, barely audible)
> I got into the program.
JEFF
> What?
SIMON
> The theatre intensive. In Toronto. For next semester.
The wind seems to die. The world goes quiet for Jeff. Toronto. January. Two months.
JEFF
> Oh.
SIMON
> I leave in January. Hence, the urgency. I needed to see the river freeze. I needed to remind myself that things change. That they enter... stasis.
JEFF
> That's... great. That's what you wanted, right?
SIMON
> It is the objective. The logical progression of my narrative.
JEFF
> (Anger flaring)
> Screw your narrative. You're leaving? Just like that?
SIMON
> It is an opportunity, Jeff! I cannot rot here in the frost! I need... I need expansion!
JEFF
> And what about... everything else?
Simon looks pained. The twitch in his jaw is visible.
JEFF
> You're full of it. You're just scared.
SIMON
> (Voice cracking)
> I am petrified! Is that what you want to hear? I am terrified of staying here and freezing into a statue of mediocrity!
JEFF
> I'm here! I'm right here! Is that mediocre?
Simon stops. His chest heaves. The wind howls around them.
SIMON
> (Softly)
> No. You are... the anchor. And anchors drown, Jeff.
The words hit Jeff like a slap. He takes a step back. Tears prick his eyes, freezing on his lashes.
JEFF
> So that's it? You're cutting the line?
SIMON
> (Whispering)
> I am saving you. From the drag.
JEFF
> I didn't ask to be saved. I just wanted to walk with you.
Simon looks torn. He takes a step toward Jeff, hand reaching out. The air between them vibrates.
SOUND of a sudden, short, aggressive SIREN CHIRP.
Blinding white light washes over them. A POLICE CRUISER has rolled silently onto the pedestrian path. Its lights flash, painting their faces in frantic strokes of red and blue.
VOICE (O.S.)
> (Through loudspeaker, metallic)
> Hey! You two! Off the railing! Now!
The moment shatters. Simon's theatrical mask snaps back into place. He straightens his coat, lifts his chin.
SIMON
> The authorities. They always arrive at the climax.
JEFF
> (Muttering, grabbing his sleeve)
> Let's just go.
A COP gets out of the car.
COP (O.S.)
> I said get off the railing, kids! What are you doing up here?
SIMON
> (Shouting)
> Observing the entropy of the universe, constable!
JEFF
> (Hissing, dragging him away)
> Shut up, Simon! We're leaving! Sorry! We're leaving!
EXT. THE FORKS PATH - MOMENTS LATER
They hurry down the other side of the ramp, half-running, and duck behind a large oak tree on a gravel path. They lean against the rough bark, gasping for air. The police lights spin above them on the bridge, casting shadows through the bare branches.
SIMON
> (Wheezing)
> That... was... exhilarating.
JEFF
> You're an idiot. A total idiot.
Simon looks at him. The manic energy fades, replaced by a deep sadness.
SIMON
> I know. Jeff?
JEFF
> Yeah?
SIMON
> About what I said. About the anchor.
JEFF
> Don't. Just don't.
Simon nods. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small, crumpled paper bag with grease stains on it. He hands it to Jeff.
SIMON
> I acquired this. For the journey.
Jeff opens it. A cold, squished, rock-hard cinnamon bun. He breaks off a piece and eats it. It tastes like sugar and cardboard.
JEFF
> Thanks.
> (After a beat)
> We have to go back. My mom will kill me if I'm late for dinner. And you... you have packing to do, I guess.
SIMON
> Packing is a state of mind.
> (Pushing off the tree)
> Come. The 11 bus awaits. We shall submit to the glass coffin.
INT. CITY BUS - NIGHT
SOUND of the bus engine RUMBLING, the HISS of the heater.
The bus is packed. Steam rises from wet coats. The floor is a soup of grey slush.
Jeff and Simon stand near the back, holding on as the bus sways. Jeff grabs an overhead strap. Simon stands close, looking tired, the performance finally exhausting him.
The bus turns onto Portage Avenue. Jeff watches the city scroll by the fogged-up window.
Simon leans in. The bus rattles over a pothole, knocking his hip into Jeff's. He doesn't pull away.
SIMON
> (Murmuring, for Jeff only)
> I'm not leaving until January.
JEFF
> (Staring straight ahead)
> I know.
SIMON
> That is... sixty-one days. A significant duration. Much can occur in sixty-one days. Empires rise and fall. Rivers freeze.
Jeff looks up at him. Simon's gaze is intense, but softer now.
JEFF
> Yeah. They do.
SIMON
> I do not wish to be a statue. But I do not wish to be alone on the ice, either.
Slowly, deliberately, Simon moves his hand. He covers Jeff's bare hand on the metal pole with his own gloved one. The touch is shocking. Public. Undeniable.
Jeff's breath catches.
JEFF
> Simon.
SIMON
> (Staring ahead, jaw tight)
> Hush. I am attempting a plot twist.
Jeff stands there, feeling the warmth seep through the leather.
SOUND: A loud SQUEAL of brakes. The HISS of doors opening.
DRIVER (O.S.)
> Main and Mountain!
Simon flinches. He pulls his hand away as if burned. Panic flares in his eyes.
SIMON
> This is my stop.
JEFF
> What? No, you live in Wolseley. That's miles away.
SIMON
> (Stammering)
> I have... an errand to run. I must... I must go.
He's already backing away, pushing through the crowd.
JEFF
> Simon!
But he's gone, shoving past a woman with a stroller and jumping off the bus into the snow. The doors start to close.
Jeff scrambles to the window, wiping away the condensation with his sleeve.
JEFF'S POV - THROUGH THE FOGGED WINDOW
Simon stands on the corner under a streetlamp, his coat billowing, looking small and lost.
Waiting for him is SIMON'S FATHER (50s), stern-faced, arms crossed, radiating fury.
Simon shrinks. The great performer, the master of winter, becomes a terrified little kid.
His Father grabs his arm. Rough. Simon stumbles.
BACK TO SCENE
SOUND of the bus engine ROARING to life.
The bus pulls away. Jeff stays pressed to the glass, watching the two figures recede into the frozen night. His face is a mask of dawning, heartbreaking clarity.
FADE TO BLACK.
SOUND of a relentless, howling WIND
The concrete towers of Portage and Main create a wind tunnel. The sky is a flat, oppressive sheet of galvanized steel.
JEFF (17), bundled in a practical but worn parka, hunches his shoulders against the assault. His face is pinched, his eyes watering from the cold. The tears cool on his cheeks.
Three paces ahead, SIMON (17) marches. He wears a long, dark wool coat that flaps behind him like a cape. No hat. His dark hair is a chaotic mess. He is performing for an audience of one.
SIMON
> (Shouting over the wind)
> It is a hostile entity! Do you feel it, Jeff? The malice? Nature is not indifferent here. It is actively offended by our presence.
Jeff jogs to catch up, slipping on a patch of black ice.
JEFF
> (Gasping)
> I feel... that we should have waited for the bus.
SIMON
> The bus is a surrender! To wait in that glass coffin of a shelter is to admit defeat. We move. We generate heat. We live.
JEFF
> (To himself)
> We freeze.
The wind rips the words away. Jeff shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, knuckles scraping lint. He looks miserable.
Simon swings around a light pole, cheeks flushed a violent red. He looks magnificent and ridiculous.
SIMON
> Pick up the pace, Jeffnard!
JEFF
> (Breathless)
> My name is Jeff. And my legs aren't as long as yours.
SIMON
> Details. We are racing the dying of the light. Do you see it?
He points a gloved hand at a sliver of bruised, peach-colored sun disappearing between two office towers. It’s only 4 PM.
They reach an intersection and stop for a red light. Simon vibrates with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Jeff leans against the metal traffic control box, exhausted. The cold seeps through his jacket.
JEFF
> Why are we doing this? Seriously, Simon. It's minus twenty with the windchill. My toes are numb. Why the Forks?
Simon turns. The theatrics drop for a second. His dark eyes are frantic, hyper-awake. He steps closer, blocking the wind. The smell of cedar soap and old wool.
SIMON
> (Voice low, intense)
> Because nothing happens in the warm, Jeff. Comfort is the enemy of revelation. We need to see the river freeze. We need to see the moment the water gives up.
JEFF
> The water doesn't give up. It just... changes state. Physics.
The light changes. The WALK sign flashes.
SIMON
> Do not reduce the tragedy of the seasons to thermodynamics! Forward!
He spins and runs into the crosswalk. A pickup truck turns, HONKING aggressively. The DRIVER flips them off.
Simon stops mid-street and gives the driver a full, dramatic bow. Jeff grabs his arm and pulls him to the other side.
INT. UNDERGROUND WALKWAY - MOMENTS LATER
SOUND of the wind cuts out, replaced by the low HUM of fluorescent lights.
The air is warm, smelling of floor wax and fast food. The sudden silence is jarring.
Simon shakes phantom snow from his coat, looking at his reflection in the dark window of a closed office. He aggressively swipes his hair back into place.
SIMON
> Sanctuary. We made good time. But we cannot linger. The subterranean labyrinth is a trap. It makes you soft.
JEFF
> (Unzipping his jacket)
> It makes me warm. Can we just stay here? Grab a donut? The river will still be there tomorrow.
SIMON
> Tomorrow it will be solid. I need to see the struggle. The slush. The in-between.
He starts walking again, boots squeaking on the linoleum. Jeff trots to keep up. A SECURITY GUARD watches them warily.
JEFF
> You're weird today. Weirder than usual. Did something happen? Did your mom... ask about the play?
Simon's shoulders flinch. A microscopic tightening.
SIMON
> The matriarch is irrelevant to the mission. This is about existence, Jeff. Pure, unadulterated existence.
EXT. ESPLANADE RIEL BRIDGE - DUSK
They burst out of a door near the train station, back into the biting cold. The sky is now a deep, angry purple. Simon points.
SIMON
> The bridge. We must ascend.
They run up the ramp onto the white suspension bridge.
SOUND: A ferocious, high-pitched WAIL as wind screams through the bridge cables. It vibrates in the teeth.
Below, the Red River is a churning sludge of grey water and grinding ice chunks.
Simon stops in the middle of the bridge. He grips the railing, knuckles white, and stares down at the dark water.
SIMON
> (Shouting over the wind)
> Look at it! It doesn't want to stop. It fights the ice. It churns. But the cold wins. The cold always wins.
Jeff huddles beside him. He glances at the river, then at Simon's face, transfixed and tragic.
JEFF
> (Yelling back)
> It's not winning! It's just resting. It melts in the spring. It comes back.
Simon turns his head slowly. His eyes are watery from the wind.
SIMON
> You are painfully optimistic, Jeffnard. It is a fatal flaw.
JEFF
> And you're painfully dramatic. It's a coping mechanism.
Simon lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, stolen by the gale.
SIMON
> Perhaps. Or perhaps I am the only one who sees the tragedy of it all.
JEFF
> What tragedy? That it's cold? Everyone knows it's cold, Simon. We live in Winnipeg. It's the factory setting.
SIMON
> (Voice dropping)
> Not the weather. The timing. The inevitable freezing of things that should be fluid.
Simon is staring at Jeff's mouth. Jeff nervously licks his chapped lips. The theatrical mask slips from Simon's face. He looks young. Scared.
He lets go of the railing and turns fully to Jeff. He reaches out a gloved hand, hesitates, then awkwardly brushes a piece of hair from Jeff's forehead. The leather is cold, the touch is careful.
SIMON
> (Rushed, barely audible)
> I got into the program.
JEFF
> What?
SIMON
> The theatre intensive. In Toronto. For next semester.
The wind seems to die. The world goes quiet for Jeff. Toronto. January. Two months.
JEFF
> Oh.
SIMON
> I leave in January. Hence, the urgency. I needed to see the river freeze. I needed to remind myself that things change. That they enter... stasis.
JEFF
> That's... great. That's what you wanted, right?
SIMON
> It is the objective. The logical progression of my narrative.
JEFF
> (Anger flaring)
> Screw your narrative. You're leaving? Just like that?
SIMON
> It is an opportunity, Jeff! I cannot rot here in the frost! I need... I need expansion!
JEFF
> And what about... everything else?
Simon looks pained. The twitch in his jaw is visible.
JEFF
> You're full of it. You're just scared.
SIMON
> (Voice cracking)
> I am petrified! Is that what you want to hear? I am terrified of staying here and freezing into a statue of mediocrity!
JEFF
> I'm here! I'm right here! Is that mediocre?
Simon stops. His chest heaves. The wind howls around them.
SIMON
> (Softly)
> No. You are... the anchor. And anchors drown, Jeff.
The words hit Jeff like a slap. He takes a step back. Tears prick his eyes, freezing on his lashes.
JEFF
> So that's it? You're cutting the line?
SIMON
> (Whispering)
> I am saving you. From the drag.
JEFF
> I didn't ask to be saved. I just wanted to walk with you.
Simon looks torn. He takes a step toward Jeff, hand reaching out. The air between them vibrates.
SOUND of a sudden, short, aggressive SIREN CHIRP.
Blinding white light washes over them. A POLICE CRUISER has rolled silently onto the pedestrian path. Its lights flash, painting their faces in frantic strokes of red and blue.
VOICE (O.S.)
> (Through loudspeaker, metallic)
> Hey! You two! Off the railing! Now!
The moment shatters. Simon's theatrical mask snaps back into place. He straightens his coat, lifts his chin.
SIMON
> The authorities. They always arrive at the climax.
JEFF
> (Muttering, grabbing his sleeve)
> Let's just go.
A COP gets out of the car.
COP (O.S.)
> I said get off the railing, kids! What are you doing up here?
SIMON
> (Shouting)
> Observing the entropy of the universe, constable!
JEFF
> (Hissing, dragging him away)
> Shut up, Simon! We're leaving! Sorry! We're leaving!
EXT. THE FORKS PATH - MOMENTS LATER
They hurry down the other side of the ramp, half-running, and duck behind a large oak tree on a gravel path. They lean against the rough bark, gasping for air. The police lights spin above them on the bridge, casting shadows through the bare branches.
SIMON
> (Wheezing)
> That... was... exhilarating.
JEFF
> You're an idiot. A total idiot.
Simon looks at him. The manic energy fades, replaced by a deep sadness.
SIMON
> I know. Jeff?
JEFF
> Yeah?
SIMON
> About what I said. About the anchor.
JEFF
> Don't. Just don't.
Simon nods. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small, crumpled paper bag with grease stains on it. He hands it to Jeff.
SIMON
> I acquired this. For the journey.
Jeff opens it. A cold, squished, rock-hard cinnamon bun. He breaks off a piece and eats it. It tastes like sugar and cardboard.
JEFF
> Thanks.
> (After a beat)
> We have to go back. My mom will kill me if I'm late for dinner. And you... you have packing to do, I guess.
SIMON
> Packing is a state of mind.
> (Pushing off the tree)
> Come. The 11 bus awaits. We shall submit to the glass coffin.
INT. CITY BUS - NIGHT
SOUND of the bus engine RUMBLING, the HISS of the heater.
The bus is packed. Steam rises from wet coats. The floor is a soup of grey slush.
Jeff and Simon stand near the back, holding on as the bus sways. Jeff grabs an overhead strap. Simon stands close, looking tired, the performance finally exhausting him.
The bus turns onto Portage Avenue. Jeff watches the city scroll by the fogged-up window.
Simon leans in. The bus rattles over a pothole, knocking his hip into Jeff's. He doesn't pull away.
SIMON
> (Murmuring, for Jeff only)
> I'm not leaving until January.
JEFF
> (Staring straight ahead)
> I know.
SIMON
> That is... sixty-one days. A significant duration. Much can occur in sixty-one days. Empires rise and fall. Rivers freeze.
Jeff looks up at him. Simon's gaze is intense, but softer now.
JEFF
> Yeah. They do.
SIMON
> I do not wish to be a statue. But I do not wish to be alone on the ice, either.
Slowly, deliberately, Simon moves his hand. He covers Jeff's bare hand on the metal pole with his own gloved one. The touch is shocking. Public. Undeniable.
Jeff's breath catches.
JEFF
> Simon.
SIMON
> (Staring ahead, jaw tight)
> Hush. I am attempting a plot twist.
Jeff stands there, feeling the warmth seep through the leather.
SOUND: A loud SQUEAL of brakes. The HISS of doors opening.
DRIVER (O.S.)
> Main and Mountain!
Simon flinches. He pulls his hand away as if burned. Panic flares in his eyes.
SIMON
> This is my stop.
JEFF
> What? No, you live in Wolseley. That's miles away.
SIMON
> (Stammering)
> I have... an errand to run. I must... I must go.
He's already backing away, pushing through the crowd.
JEFF
> Simon!
But he's gone, shoving past a woman with a stroller and jumping off the bus into the snow. The doors start to close.
Jeff scrambles to the window, wiping away the condensation with his sleeve.
JEFF'S POV - THROUGH THE FOGGED WINDOW
Simon stands on the corner under a streetlamp, his coat billowing, looking small and lost.
Waiting for him is SIMON'S FATHER (50s), stern-faced, arms crossed, radiating fury.
Simon shrinks. The great performer, the master of winter, becomes a terrified little kid.
His Father grabs his arm. Rough. Simon stumbles.
BACK TO SCENE
SOUND of the bus engine ROARING to life.
The bus pulls away. Jeff stays pressed to the glass, watching the two figures recede into the frozen night. His face is a mask of dawning, heartbreaking clarity.
FADE TO BLACK.